


Beauty from Ashes

by BakerTumblings



Series: Instead of Ruins, Beauty from Ashes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Addiction recovery, Alternate Universe, Childhood memories and perceptions, Drug Withdrawal, Endoscopy, Eventual Happy Ending, Exposure therapy, Feel-good, Field Outings with Dr. Watson, Flatmates at last, Fluffy Ending, Harsh treatment while held captive, Homeless Network, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John Watson is a Saint, John changes Jobs, John is a Very Good Doctor, John keeps his promises, John knows when he needs a firm hand, Lestrade to the Rescue, M/M, Medical, Medical Examination, Medical Home, Medical Issues don't always smell good, Military Backstory, Military Kink, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft To The Rescue, Mycroft Tries to be a Good Big Brother, Mycroft to the Rescue?, Non-Linear Narrative, Profanity, Protective Mycroft, Reading Out Loud is not just for Children, Relapse Prevention Strategies, Relapse and Threat of more Relapse, Repressed Memories of Unpleasant Treatment, Rewarding Good Behaviour, Sherlock is a Menace when he's Bored, Sherlock's Violin, Slow Burn, Surviving Separation Anxiety, Tough Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Very minor character death that happens outside of the actual writing, Vomiting, anaemia, blood transfusion, john has sherlock's back, the slowest of slow burns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2018-12-26 07:59:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 209,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12054684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: John Watson, MD, is a freelance Medical Coordinator, who has been hired by British Government leader Mycroft Holmes to work miracles on behalf of his brother, who is suffering from terrible sequelae of addiction, failure to thrive, and unsuccessful rehab stints.  Cue the headstrong encounters!





	1. Entreaty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft enlists John's unique, professional services for benefit of his brother.

John leaned forward to tuck a second pillow behind his back on the narrow cot, then leaned back on his elbow as he flipped yet another page of the rather unique medical history he perused. The rustle of the page turning seemed to penetrate the light slumber of the other occupant of the room, who inhaled deeper, turned his head on the pillow, before then settling back to - hopefully - a more restorative phase of sleep. The history and physical were soon consumed, along with the hospitalisation course, followed by the discharge summary. The medication reconciliation, given the history, was entirely sparse, raising more questions than answers as John studied it.  John wondered about the omitted details, the motivation, the protective nature of his employer. He viewed the laboratory studies, radiograph reports, and there was the niggling doubt that these records also had been carefully selected to present a somewhat jaded, incomplete, deliberately vague picture of his current patient.

Who snored lightly, a pitiful sound, followed by a quiet, sleeping moan of distress.

John eyeballed the wireless pulse oximeter readout that was by his bed, stable, heart rate a bit elevated but probably not fully awake at the moment. Intervening on a sleeping patient was risky and needed to be timed carefully to avoid panic, injury, or regression. The last thing John wanted to do on this first day of meeting this new client was to have a reactive response, an immediate set-back. Silently pressing to his feet, he adjusted the roller clamp of the IV fluids, lifted a dark curl from the man's temple, brushing it away from his eye while assessing both temperature (normal) and skin (mild diaphoresis, not unexpected) as he touched lightly.

Flipping open his leather folio, he clicked his sleek, weighted, engraved biro, and began to write.

_Pt is a 28 year old single male with long-standing drug history discharged this day from an elite rehab, where the staff had demanded his removal for treatment non-compliance, with consent and at bequest of patient's brother. Tox screen yesterday (UDS) still positive for substances and it is unknown how the patient procured them. I have conditionally agreed to take this client on in his flat as a 1:1 observation, but have estimated a rather low probability of successful long-term detoxification and rehabilitation..._

++

John’s role and vocation was unconventional, strictly cash pay, as a one on one counselor, medical patient advocate, and total care provider. His informational advert used words like professional, experienced, skilled, unique, and flexible. Initially, with each new patient, he insisted on a live-in arrangement, where he provided all rehab services, care, simple meals (complex ones by request, which cost more, but he was almost always game), detox services, monitoring, activities of daily living, medication therapy, healthcare when necessary, and rare consults only if needed. He was the only one in England, and in high demand. He had a back-log of patients waiting, mostly by reputation, recommendation, or word-of-mouth referral; less often, his website or via email. This one had come as a direct walk-in, in person, an uninvited visitor to his office, where he was finalising a previous patient's paperwork.

The tall man, plain, simple features, aristocratic bearing, carrying an umbrella, arrived at the seldom-used office, showed himself in, and sat down. Wordless initially, he turned his head carefully as he absorbed everything there was to know about the way John Watson presented himself. The office, elegant and tasteful. Use of colour, blandly professional. Medical school diploma in a refined frame, hung, free of dust. Med school graduation photo, small headshot on his flyer - but personal photos, none. Military awards, service records, blatantly and conspicuously absent. Mycroft Holmes turned his cool blue eyes to John, paused, waited, and was pleasantly surprised at John's unfaltering return stare - patient, cool demeanor, confident. Though Mycroft himself had many tasks to see to as did John, neither man gave the impression of anything but casual composure. On to business, then, the visitor mused, posture straightening, his request for services.

"Thank you for seeing me."

John's steady, silent eye very clearly stated that he'd been given no choice. And then just as clearly, get on with it.

A dossier was handed to him. "Here are my credentials. And the application form for your next client." The file contained two papers, one a government issued information sheet all properly notarised, and the application form. The identification form, John knew immediately was carefully impersonal, shallow, bland, and too perfectly benign. He wondered as to the actual identify of the obviously government official before him.

“What’s this all about, then?” John asked. “And who are you really?”

The right corner of the man's mouth twitched but did not smile. Impressed, then. "I represent your next job. Your next patient."

"You're rather presumptuous." Chuckling at his bravado, John conceded that he was at least being sought by someone bold and unafraid.

"I worry about him."

"Relation of yours?"

"Brother." A hand extended, fingers long, well-manicured, not quite warm as John shook it. "I am Mycroft Holmes."

John gave a snort of acknowledgement, leaned back in his chair as he slid the application form to the top, and began to read.

++

"You can begin immediately." It was not quite a question yet prompted a response.

“I haven’t agreed to take on this client.” John glanced down again through his readers - which he didn't actually need but he reveled in the look, the studious presentation they gave him - at the application form and request for services that the man across from him at very scantily filled out. Name: Sherlock Holmes, age 28, and chief complaint: substance abuse, acute and chronic, with impending detoxification. A couple of other diagnoses - high functioning sociopath, social integration disorder - had been hastily written in as if an afterthought. Or a tempting plea.

Mycroft’s expression changed not a bit, the same, steady, pale-eyed stare. “I suggest that you give it serious consideration.” The implied threat might as well have been orated. _Or Else._

“I am one of the best, and I give everything serious consideration." John let his steady gaze drive his words home. "I choose my patients very carefully.”

While John had been threatened many times over his career - over his life actually if one threw Harry and his da into the mix - but never with quite so few words before. Ever. Words weren’t particularly necessary, as Mycroft’s slight smirk, the narrowing of an eye, and simple statement, “My success rate in recruitment is 100%.”

 _Ah,_ John realised. _Military._ He grinned, at least he could be amused at the brazen statement, then, as he could palpate the warning - the _dire_ warning - as obvious as an incarcerated hernia. “My treatment success rate is fairly high, as well.” John let his eyebrow raise, keeping his face solemn, unemotional. “And I don’t resort to threats and certainly don’t try to intimidate people to obtain them.”

“Your very role as caretaker and personal health advocate can be intimidating. I have done my research on your methods, which vary greatly based on setting and client. You have had amazing successes on those who had been deemed incorrigible and a lost cause.” Consulting his pocket notepad, he spoke a few names that he had no business knowing, elaborated on a few that had John almost alarmed at how he had been compromised, his patients confidential identities known to this man. He _never_ leaked personal information, worked either completely on his own or rarely with very few, implicitly trusted and well-compensated aides, and yet, here was someone who apparently had violated him, his records, his patients. John's feet were just about under him before he realised it, angry, furious, and very visible to Mycroft, who held out a cautionary hand and John stilled. “I have done my research and will continue to guard your privacy. Your patients identities remain confidentially between us. Even as you manage to assist what will likely - most assuredly - be one of your greatest challenges yet.”

“I won’t be threatened. And if your little display is supposed to motivate me into agreement, think again.”

Had John not been watching for pupillary dilation, he may have missed it. He was quite anxious about John's response, and John could almost feel the power dynamic shift slightly in his favour. Mycroft reached for his mobile, then repocketed it, and stood. “I’m glad we’ve had this little … chat. To know where we all stand.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft said softly. "How expedient for my situation that your previous client terminated his services, just... last evening, wasn't it?" The little smirk was telling, and John couldn't stop the few rapid blinks, the surprise he was sure was on his face.

++

John's finger had disconnected the call, the line silent, and a curious expression left behind on his face. It was not the first time a patient had suddenly decided he was done, finished, ta very much, moving on. Usually, however, he had an inkling it was coming. This time, not at all. He mulled briefly the terms the patient had used - _I've decided... I no longer need... terminating our agreement... honour the contractual clauses... payment is forthcoming... I've already arranged for a courier to deliver your belongings to you in the morning ... thank you._ John had tried his usual negotiations to gradually taper visits or even just to give them both closure with one, final exit session, but the patient had been quite tersely adamant: _No._

He had still been puzzled when a dark suited messenger in a black car had dropped off boxes of the last of his supplies there at his office early that morning, waited for his signature, and drove away.

Now, glancing across his desk at Mycroft's almost-smug face as he watched John connect the dots, he had quite a bit of clarity into the situation. Meddlesome bastard.

++

While John was certain that this man somehow was ultimately responsible for his previous patient's abrupt departure, he was not inclined to confront him about it. "I have a few other patients who have also been waiting. Much longer than you. In fact, I have a consult set for this afternoon." With serious expression, John pushed the paper aside, removed and folded his glasses. "You may have to wait your turn like everyone else."

"Turn it down."

"Last I checked, I don't actually have to take orders from you."

John's office line rang, then, voicemail engaging immediately, and there was a woman's voice apologetically asking to cancel that afternoon's consultation appointment. Mycroft did not smirk, and John did not comment.

"You thrive on adventure. I dare say, you miss it." Mycroft glanced about, eyes resting deliberately on the desk, walls, picked up his business card to brush his fingers over John's degrees and credentials. "Interesting, Dr. Watson, your office." Mycroft set the business card back in the holder on John's desk. "What's displayed. And what isn't."

"None of your concern," John said flatly, in a tone that hopefully conveyed the topic closed.

"Your concern is your next patient, so it is fortuitous that you are currently between patients."

"If I even accept Mr. Holmes as an appropriate client."

"It would be wise if you do," the man said in a much gentler tone. "About your fee schedule, I'm prepared --"

"I think you've misunderstood --"

"Dr. Watson, your schedule is clear." His tone was becoming more emphatic, fierce undertones, beginning to show frustration. "I highly recommend it."

John weighed his options, considered banishing the sod from his office, or storming out himself - justifiably, he thought. He also considered this new situation, obviously not routine nor destined to be easy by any stretch. Silence won.

“The car is waiting. Come along. I understand you have a contract, which I will sign. I have some addendums, as well."

When John did not immediately argue, Mycroft could tell that John was at least interested enough for the moment and would cooperate to a small degree. John stood, shrugged as he slid his desk chair home. "Addendums. Of course you do."

"We should arrive at the flat at approximately the same time as my brother. But we shouldn't delay any longer.” Mycroft rose as well, letting the activity mask the exhale of relief.

"I shall be needing to gather a few things --"

"They have already been acquired."

“I haven’t...” John began again, then let a breathy exhale of laughter sound, and changed tacks. In his mind, he imagined uttering _fuck it all_ , opted to keep his professionalism at the forefront and holding the curse on his tongue. “Fine. I will agree to accept this client on a probationary period only. One week.” John would probably know if there was any hope much sooner than that, decided to be accommodating. Generous even.

“Your probationary period is unacceptable. Six weeks minimum.”

John kept his gaze level. He’d occasionally had a client that long, or longer, but it was very unusual. And signified the severity of whatever he would be walking into. "No."

Mycroft blew a breath between pursed lips seeming to imply that he was settling and therefore somehow to be commended for it. “I would actually have preferred three months.”

“I will agree to a week. As to a contract, not yet. I agree only to meet him today," he waited for Mycroft to reluctantly nod before continuing. Mycroft stepped to the front window that faced the street, tapped once “- and we will leave the rest to negotiate within the next day or so." Mycroft looked mildly concerned at his own concession to the terms, and John smiled then. “I trust first impressions will be quite revealing.”

Two men arrived, and John hastily gathered what he knew he would need, pointed to a few boxes, and followed the whole procession out of the office to the waiting stretch car. Black and creepy. Upon seeing the chauffeur, the assistants, John could only turn a wan smile at Mycroft. "What was it I was asking about first impressions? Nice touch." John slid his pack from his shoulder and identified the man holding the door to the rear of the car as another upper-ranked military officer. The compulsion to salute was strong even after all this time. "Ta."

"First impressions, Dr. Watson. Do not be misled." Quietly, seriously, Mycroft looked out the window as the car manoeuvered the London streets. Cryptically, he added, “You have no idea.”

++

A mute trip across town ended with their vehicle against the kerb outside a cafe on Baker Street. John remained seated as contents of the boot were carried through a side door and up a flight of stairs. The only sign Mycroft gave John that he might have been mildly anxious was the small repetitive movement of his thumb along the engraved carving of the wooden umbrella handle, the tic of a nervous distraction, a talisman. Mycroft consulted his mobile briefly, then nodded to John as he exited the vehicle then stood as John followed, waiting only a short time until a smaller car arrived. Mycroft stood at regal attention as an attendant opened the rear door. When nothing was forthcoming, John glanced at Mycroft, who seemed disinclined to move, so John placed a hand on the roof, bending forward to peer inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, he's in the car.


	2. Convergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has hired John to help Sherlock recover, and they have just arrived at Baker Street, where John will attempt to get things sorted.

The sleek inside of the car was lush, clean, well cared for. There was the scent of old, well maintained high-grade leather interior along with a citrusy tang, but as he tucked his body deeper inside the car there was more: sweat, stale breathing, and illness. John took note of very little else as his eyes surveyed the reclined man who lay essentially non-responsive, cockeyed across the seat in the far corner of the vehicle.

What John wanted to say was, 'Are you fucking kidding me?' Instead, he did take in signs of life along with the gaunt pallor. “This man most likely belongs in a medical hospital. Immediately.” John took the seat next to the man, moved closer to assess the situation, going so far as to take the occupant's motionless hand and feel for strength and quality of his radial pulse. The man in the car’s skin was hot, pulse thready and rapid. Drawing closer, John shook a shoulder, snappily, and speaking a curt hey, then hello. He pried open an eyelid then, taking into account stale breath, hot, fetid, too rapid yet shallow, and found his half-mast eyelids alarming. “I am not accepting this patient in this condition. It is inappropriate for this type of setting.” He swiveled to eye Mycroft steadily, challenging, his own eyes flashing fire into the cool blue ones opposing him. “As I believe you are well aware.”

“He will be brought inside. He needs to be here, at his home. I promised him we would try.”

"He is not medically cleared, not for a home setting."

"You are a _physician_ , Dr. Watson."

"First do no harm," John quoted without delay. “You are risking his health and his recovery if you proceed.”

“He has refused everything in his previous setting. And he has been most uncooperative, quite unhappy. Everyone feels this is a better option.”

 "Everyone, _who_? Exactly who feels this is for his benefit? I think that list might be short, with only two names on it both ending in Holmes."

"Riskier to have forced him to stay where he was."

++

_"Mr. Holmes? I am Dr. Landau, one of Sherlock's physicians. I'm sorry the call isn't better news, but we discovered something concerning your brother and needed to bring this matter to your attention."_

_"Go on."_

_"Well, yes, of course, as you know, we round on all of our patient's regularly, at least hourly to assure their safety. This morning staff found Sherlock's bed was empty, and he was discovered having syncopised on the bathroom floor..."_

_Mycroft kept quiet, though his sigh over the mobile was loud enough to be heard._

_"We mobilised our medical response team of course, there was no sign of injury. The nocturnist evaluated him quite thoroughly."_

_"Isn't there an exit alarm on the bed?"_

_"It had been deactivated."_

_"I see."_

_"You should be aware of something else. Medical work-up routinely includes testing for the presence of substances. There are some positive findings that are difficult to explain..."_

++

"This is riskier? I am not --"

"His treating physician discharged him."

John's explosive response was delivered in low volume on his high energy setting. "Of course he did. How forcefully did you threaten him?" There was something of a snore from Mycroft's brother, and then the patient closed his eyes again. Flipping Sherlock's hand over, John assessed turgor and fingernail state. Dehydrated, clearly, but not unkempt for long by account of the state of his fingertips which were clean and relatively trimmed but his entire hand was dry. "It's unsafe. By insisting, you are jeopardising ..."

John halted his words as Mycroft slipped further into the car, and with a sedate, restraining touch on John's arm, he spoke kindly to his brother. "We're home. Baker Street, Sherlock." The gentleness in his tone surprised John in the sentiment and the concern that was intrinsic in his body language and words. "As promised."

Surprisingly, there was a flicker of responsiveness, and briefly Sherlock's eyes tried to open, movement of his upper body as if he were considering moving but couldn't quite manage it. An encouraging sign, John knew, and he thought perhaps an ambulance might not need to be _immediately_ dispatched. Under his fingers, John could feel a jump in pulse rate, but soon it settled back down to where it had been, still tachycardic, and his breathing along with his body relaxed. Mycroft met John's eyes in the car there, the three of them in the back of the car, and his gaze and expression were more somber, concerned. "Dr. Watson, please. Trust me when I say that this:" and here he paused, seemed a little overwrought as he swallowed hard, " _you_ , Dr. Watson, _you_ are perhaps our last resort." Both of them took a long, slow look at Sherlock, who gave a shiver and a toss of his head. "Many others have failed, and... _Please_."

"Inside, then."

Exiting the vehicle, John watched calmly while Mycroft directed the backseat passenger be mostly lifted, dragged, and otherwise carried up the few steps to the first landing. John and Mycroft held the doors as they needed, and then followed the oddly angled parade inside the front door, stood at the bottom of another flight of seventeen steps. "You'll need a chair," John said as the hired muscle stood, statue-esque, at the bottom of the steps.

Three pairs of eyes questioned John without speaking, and had John been inclined, he would have speculated out loud that Mycroft must only employ people who communicate telepathically, and so John continued explaining. "A straight backed, plain chair. Put him in it, carry the chair up the steps, upright and head first, of course. Much safer, and easier on everyone that way." When they simply stood there, John glanced at Mycroft who also stood there looking at him. "Your option is otherwise to sling him up over your shoulders. The army carry. Or fireman's carry. Either is going to be much more difficult up the stairs." John pressed, then, and had no problem giving orders, making a decision. "A chair will be safer."

"There is one upstairs," Mycroft said, his chin raising at John a bit, as if waiting for John to begin his new job immediately. He held out a key in John's direction. "You'll need this."

Mycroft was looking pointedly at John's hand which was rubbing small circles on his shoulder, having risen unbidden and unconsciously to press into the divot, which was still numb but fully healed. His wound. The association was obvious to them both, that John could never quite forget and that Mycroft knew not just about the career-ending injury but perhaps even some of the back story. Quickly John ceased, reaching out his hand for the outstretched keys proffered. "Thanks."

His narrowed gaze took in John's quick cover up, his recovery, the way he stood taller, head back, chin forward. "You are..." _capable?_

"Of course," John snapped back, effectively communicating bugger off without actually speaking it.

John considered that Mycroft himself was unlikely to actually lift a finger, while the other two were holding up the patient. Sherlock's head was down, hanging not entirely limp but close, and John spritely ascended the stairs in search thereof. Part of him resisted, but the rest, the logical part, realised that he also was hired help, and this was not completely inappropriate. The flat was slightly musky from disuse, stale aired, John thought, but otherwise in acceptable condition. Bookshelves were comfortably full, couch, chair, television. There was a desk near the window, kitchen he presumed off to one side, hallway to the left, bedrooms then, and another floor above. Quickly he located a suitable chair from the kitchen, returned to the group huddled at the bottom of the steps. With short directions, John took one side, coordinated their efforts with the others, and soon had reassembled them all inside the doorway of the flat.

The assistants hesitated at the couch, John shook his head. “Bedroom.”

“Down the hall and to the left.” Mycroft busied himself with his mobile while clarifying the direction they were headed.

John led the entourage into the room, setting the chair close to the mattress, and began to oversee the simple task of depositing the weak-limbed man onto the bed. Once he was assured he was comfortable, breathing easily, and safe for the moment, he returned to the hallway, where he could still see the motionless form on the bed for the moment. To Mycroft, he demanded, "If the intention is for him to stay here and not in the hospital as he probably needs, I'm going to need a substantial amount of supplies, equipment, and the possibility of more going forward."

"Indeed."

"My clothing, basics, along with --" John stopped mid-sentence as his own familiar cases were brought in, set down.

Arms akimbo, he considered the other man. Mycroft was smirking.

"Did you break into my flat?"

"Of course not," Mycroft said with quiet arrogance. "I only hire professionals."

John's computer bag joined the small pile against the wall, and the novel he'd been currently reading peeked out of the top of the bag. He couldn't stop the incredulous snort of surprise and then remembrance of Mycroft's apparent unlimited access. "Never mind then."

“Some basic equipment is already here, medical and otherwise," Mycroft explained, "and more will be brought in. Whatever you find you need additionally, simply let me know, and I will have it delivered." He stared at John. "There is almost nothing I cannot procure for you."

“Pulse ox, to start with. I can monitor heart rate with it, too. He needs immediate IV fluids. I will be drawing my own labwork. A courier can deliver lab tubes to the hospital, soon as I draw them, and I want results run stat and faxed to me. You have one here?"

Mycroft nodded, "I am given to understand all of that is in one of the crates. I and a medical advisor brought much of what we expected may be necessary, although he is a bit more ill than when last I'd seen him."

"He may yet need admission."

"You cannot --"

"No," John said sharply, and when Mycroft's mouth immediately opened to argue, protest, and give orders to the contrary, John held up a no-nonsense hand. Not wanting to disturb his patient, he took a few steps toward the sitting room, and with controlled, calm authority, continued. "You listen to me. We are not jeopardising your brother's very life just for the convenience of keeping him here. If I determine he is beyond my scope or becoming unstable, I will take appropriate action." On hearing the power in John’s bearing, his voice, Mycroft felt the slightest bit of relief that he’d made this drastic and somewhat complicated decision. He didn't even care that it would cost him a fortune, but grateful and willing to pay provided it would help his recalcitrant, fractious sibling. John was continuing. "Means of payment for incidentals at my discretion. No visitors until I agree. Favourite foods, for when his appetite returns. Laundry service."

"Whatever you deem necessary, I will supply it." A Visa card appeared in Mycroft's hand, and John simply flicked his eyes to the desk, where it was placed.

"I will be wanting every bit of his medical records, but for now the crucial items are his discharge summary and current medications. The last thing he needs is to suffer withdrawal of anything else on top of his present condition. Have I made myself clear?”

“Crystal." Mycroft watched as another box of supplies was carried in. As expected, not a single question had been voiced from any of his staff, the orders were simply obeyed. He considered one of them as it went by, stopped the procession, opened the box lid, extracted a small file. "Records."

"Looks a bit light?"

"There's more, I assure you." This he handed to John, gestured off-handedly and the box was carried into the bedroom with the rest, "Somewhere."

One of his helpers came back, "That's the end of it," and they heard the front door close. "Last item of business for tonight anyway. The contract. For your signature when you're ready,” and Mycroft held the papers out, on a clipboard. “You insisted on meeting him first. And now you have.”

Without a word initially, John went back to the doorway, more comfortable if he had this rather unfamiliar patient under his charge well within his line of sight. “Fuck your contract. I agreed verbally to a week, as I said, and that’s it. If I feel we can make any progress, we will talk then. but right now, I have work to do.” There was a soft groan from the bed along with the sound of a rustle of fabric, and John began to roll up his sleeves already. Mycroft did not make a move to leave, as John spun on his heel, hesitating only long enough to snarl, "I work alone." John was in full stop order mode, the don’t mess with me tone, the authoritative demeanor. He was taking control here, and would have satisfaction. It was the primary reason why Mycroft had found, pursued, and hired him. "I'm sure you know this about my methods already."

"What if you need ...?"

"Assistance?" John finished the question as if it were not worth asking. "Well, one would hope that I certainly have resources if I do."

"I expect to be kept abreast of any developments."

"I expect to be left alone to do what you're paying me - _generously_ \- to do here. End of discussion."

Nodding, Mycroft handed John a card. "My private contact information."

The final phrase he spoke, "Fine, now get out," as he entered Sherlock's bedroom and flicked on another lamp, casting light across the bed, the supplies, and a cot that had already been placed against the wall. He pushed the door closed as Mycroft's footsteps could be heard growing quieter, more for a statement than anything else.

Had John more time, he would have been impressed at the efficiency and apparent thoroughness of the arrangements. His go-bag of belongings, clothing, toiletries, had been brought. He would set the cot up against the corner, not the exact one but similar enough to the model he'd slept in in Afghanistan. It wasn't always needed with his patients, the constant and direct observation, but he knew upstairs or in another room was out of the question, and apparently on that fact, he and Mycroft agreed.

The man in the bed moaned again, and John came to Sherlock's side, took his hand. "Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes. I am Dr. Watson."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A medical home is a team-based delivery of care that allows a patient to remain in their own home. It is coordinated between patient, provider, and needed services.


	3. Primary Survey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has been hired by Mycroft to provide live-in, continual care to Sherlock. John is game for the challenge, and is just ready to get acquainted.
> 
>  

John knew that the transport, the moving from wherever he'd been earlier in the day (nowhere pleasant, obviously), being dressed and driven by car, then being carried up the steps, deposited on the bed, would be exhausting, particularly when under the influence and certainly malnourished. As John watched, even the faintest rousing elevated Sherlock's heart rate; there was no reserve, no residual activity tolerance. He took only a few minutes of his time perusing the history and physical, then the discharge summary. After reading these, he set the file aside, noting that Mycroft had supplied actually very basic and fairly bland information. 

A quickly obtained set of vital signs gave John the immediate direction he needed, and Sherlock slept through all that. Blood pressure low, heart rate and respiratory rate high, oxygen level marginal, and hypothermic for the moment, he had actually been expecting more lability. Immediate hydration, as John had already suspected, was the priority. "Time for some water, Sherlock," John said, sliding him upright and tucking another pillow behind his back. "Care for a drink? Here's a straw," and when John offered, there was no response. He was not surprised, but willing to consider the simplest and most basic hydration if Sherlock could do it without aspiration risk. Moving on, then.

In his quick inventory perusing the supplies, John located both phlebotomy and intravenous supplies, placed a tourniquet, cannulated a vein, drew off a few tubes of blood before connecting a bag of IV fluids, normal saline to start. Dextrose would be added to subsequent bags, but crystalloid volume expansion was more important at first. He could tell that Mycroft had both done his homework and had serious connections, given that there was a small chemists shop at his disposal, a wide assortment of items; John hoped he would need very little actual medications. He would, later of course, make some attempts at nutrition when Sherlock was awake, able to eat safely.

While getting him settled, he kept up a quiet litany of procedures, explanations of current findings, what the plan was, and reassurance that all was going to be okay. "So we're just going to give you a bag or two of IV fluids, see if we can get you feeling better. Tomorrow, you're going to need to eat, but tonight we'll let you rest, recover." He attached a disposable, adhesive pulse oximeter, one of the new wireless ones, to Sherlock's toe, connected it to the monitoring base which he would keep close enough for him to keep an eye on it, next to the cot. The readout was in soft blue and gave him heart rate and oxygen saturation levels. "So this is your room, yeah? You have an interesting collection here." Briefly, John paused to glance around again, chemistry books, tables and charts framed, a skull on the cupboard. Ordered, comfortable, not fussy, or so he thought until he went looking for clean, easy, comfortable clothing or pyjamas, pulled open the top dresser drawer to find that the man had indexed his socks.

_A sock index?_

John glanced back at the sleeping bed-occupant, puzzled, more than a little curious. Who does that? Each little discovery was enlightening, but he was not expecting that. "Perhaps when you're better, you can fill me in on precisely why you've done this."

He carried lab forms in his own gear, and completed one then arranged for a courier service to pick up the specimens. He considered the cardiac monitor, mostly out of curiosity with a little concern thrown in, but decided that nothing would specifically be gained from it at this point. He then sat back again to watch, wait, listen, and plan. His clipboard was handy and quickly finished with. He organised supplies, listened to Sherlock's breathing patterns, and after a bit of time could tell his charge was less stressed, his work of breathing reduced.

Taking a few minutes while Sherlock seemed more deeply asleep, he roamed the flat, finding a well-stocked kitchen, an ample supply of healthy food choices and a few items that roused his curiosity even more about the Holmes' brothers - from a rather diverse selection of imported teas to more than a few assorted boxes of ginger biscuits. And an unopened pack of cigarettes, which John wrapped then stashed inside a far corner of the kitchen cupboard. One of the cabinets creaked, another slammed harder than John had expected, and the noise was loud in the otherwise quiet flat. Distantly, he could hear movement in the flat beneath Sherlock's, and the running of water, street noise. Other tenants in the building, then, or customers at the cafe.

He put the kettle on, and as the tea steeped, he heard noise in the hallway, footsteps growing closer, then a three-rapped knock on the door. Much too soon for the specimen pick up.

John took a quick step toward the bedroom to glance in, found Sherlock resting, eyes closed, IV infusing, and returned to the door.

"Yoo hoo? Sherlock?" came the voice followed by an actual attempt to turn the knob.

John opened the door to find a bespectacled kindly woman ready to unlock the door with a key. "Hello," he said, ready to introduce himself but she seemed not put out by his presence.

"Oh, I knew I heard someone up here." She peered around John to get a glimpse of the room. "Is Sherlock home? Finally?"

"Resting," John thought she seemed harmless enough, certainly concerned about the person she'd inquired regarding. "I'm helping him out for a bit."

"Sweet talked his way out of rehab, then? Or he escaped again," she mused, nodding and a little happier at her second choice, "Not a surprise there."

"I just put on tea, do you want a cup?" John was definitely not beneath doing a bit of creative information-gathering by whatever means he could.

"No thanks, but you're a dear to offer."

"John Watson," he volunteered.

"Martha Hudson, Sherlock's landlady. I live downstairs." That explained the key, John knew. "Does Mycroft know you're here?"

"Mycroft " --  _hired me?_ \-- "asked me to stay on for a bit."

"That right?" John couldn't decide if she looked doubtful or overly concerned. "If I'd known you were coming I'd have hoovered."

"Oh, no worries here, it's fine." They exchanged a cautious smile, and John found himself liking her quite a bit as they very briefly chatted about non-important things, neither particularly in a hurry, in the open doorway. 

There was a cute smirk about her as she grew pensive, backed up to look John over from head to toe. "You seem a nice man, I do hope you know what you're in for."

The outer door opened, and heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs. John could see a uniformed man with clipboard coming up behind Mrs. Hudson. "Blood sample for the hospital?" he asked John, a tired sounding twang to his speech.

John produced the plain brown bag avoiding Mrs. Hudson's alarmed gaze. "I'm fairly certain you're just supposed to say you're here to pick up a package," John chided. 

There was a flash of fear on his face, and with wide eyes, he tried again, apologetically, "I'm here to pick up a package."

"Better," John said nodding, signing, and then watching him safely stow the bag, hustle downstairs and out the door to the kerb. After the courier had left, there was a faint moan from down the hall audible to them both. In Mrs. Hudson's direction, he simply nodded. "Duty calls."

"Yes," she agreed, "I'll certainly be staying out of your way, not to worry." He smiled as she returned down the stairs.

Tea and a ginger biscuit first, both of which he carried into the bedroom.

Sherlock was still mostly laying in bed, a little more restless, but his eyes were open for a bit. John opened his laptop to find a bit of music for background noise, settled on a new easy listening stream, kept the volume minimal. He unfolded and set up the cot, stretching out sheets, pillows, duvet. While it may have been narrower than any typical bed, it offered good back support, didn't creak at all, and suited him quite well. He'd spent many a night on not nearly as nice accommodations in the army.

Staring at the cot then, he could feel fullness in his chest at the association. His face crumpled just slightly as he could recall when the cot would have been considered luxurious, when he'd been forced to sleep on much harder surfaces. Deep breath, slow exhale, relax. Even so, features back to neutral, John knew the pain of betrayal still stung deep.

++

"Johnny?"

The woman's annoyed voice was followed by a nudge of her shoe on his lower leg from above the blanket. "Go 'way," he said, his tone sleep-roughened and low. A poke happened again, so he continued, " _Piss off."_

"What the hell are you kipping on the floor when there's a perfectly good bed?"

"Too soft." John rolled onto his back, feeling the tightness and twinge of his shoulder wound. He adjusted and pulled the pillow down under his neck again. "It's terrible."

"Well, this is weird. You're back in civilisation now. Act bloody civilised, for god's sake."

Civilised. John chewed the word a few times, could almost taste the bitterness of it. He'd crashed at Harry's, telling her a very minimal story, only that his injury had got him discharged from the army. Which was sort of true in the end.

He'd shown her the shoulder wound, puckered and ugly. She had no idea that the internal, hidden scars were worse.

Much, much worse.

++

He began making a list of demands for Sherlock's brother, pulled out his mobile to text them while they were fresh in his mind.

 ** _Real and complete medical records. John_** He wondered if that was clear enough, added

 ** _Unaltered and unadulterated_**  

_**No more cigarettes under any circumstances** _

__ **As you wish. Records not to your liking? MH**

_**They're fine for someone who likes shallow fiction.** _

                  **Tomorrow. MH**

_**Fine.** _

__ **I will include nicotine patches. You will thank me later. MH**

John read the message, did not respond.

++

This was unusual practice, and not in his usual wheelhouse. Typically, he had enough time to get acquainted with his next patient before they ever met, before clapping eyes on them, before he was just thrown into the deep end of the ocean and expected to not only swim, but to save the life he’d been assigned.  _Save the life_. In all likelihood, the man was medically fragile, more than John liked. He would very likely get worse before really making any progress, so John was oddly grateful for the rest that Sherlock was getting but anxious to begin working with him. His new employer, the annoying git with the umbrella and the pompousity, had asked for three months sight unseen. 

He perused the box of items for what he was looking for. At least his new employer had researched him enough to know what he preferred, what supplies he liked, and he was not disappointed. At present, he would assess, to interact with this man who probably belonged inpatient somewhere - hospital, facility, psych hospital, John wasn’t entirely sure. But he was disheveled, and John would wash him, change his attire while figuring out his both short term and longer term goals for his care.

Unless he ended up back in hospital, and judging by his cachectic state, John was wagering maybe fifty-fifty on that.

The microwave was quickly put to use, heating the bath-in-a-bag wipes, and John spoke before touching his patient, particularly when he'd be exposing skin. Startling someone awake, particularly when so obviously traumatised, was not something he wanted to begin with.

“Sherlock?” John pulled down the blanket. “I’m Dr. Watson, remember? I’ve been assigned to care for you, and am going to get you washed up. Going to take a listen and check you over pretty good, and then maybe you can go back to sleep, all right?”

No response.

John eased the man up - slim, very little muscle mass - to remove his shirt. The curls were greasy, flat, his cheeks hollow and pronounced, his oral mucous membranes dry and pale. His chest showed signs of pectus excavatum - Marfan's perhaps? - given the hollowed sternum, and John wondered about his aortic valve. He would measure him later. There was substantial precordial lift - signs of a degree of dehydration as well as a hyperdynamic circulatory response. He washed both arms and Sherlock’s front, then eased him over, turning him just enough on his side, to very quickly and cursorily wash his back. He stopped mid wipe.

There were scars criss-crossing his upper back and shoulders, down along his ribs, healed and shiny. He wondered exactly what history the patient had. He would do a more thorough skin assessment and exam the following day, he knew, and this primary survey was simply to do a high-level assessment, become familiar, find out a few things. Still holding him up on an angle, John one-handedly placed his stethoscope in his ears, listened front and back, then turned his attention to Sherlock’s face, inspecting eyes, nose, ears, and throat with his otoscope.

There was still very little response, although Sherlock was not limp or without muscle tone, and his eyes were open somewhat, seemed unfocused and unseeing but a good sign nonetheless. John procured another soft tee shirt from the cupboard, slid the patient into it, carefully threading the IV bag and tubing through. He turned to the man’s particularly concave abdomen, hearing faint bowel sounds, seeing very little fat and poor skin turgor throughout, set about to washing him - legs, feet, pelvis, genitalia - and then re-dressed him in a clean pair of pyjama pants. He assessed a nearly empty bladder so far - non-distended anyway, although when he pressed slightly, there was a bit of restlessness and the eyes of the patient opened a bit more intentionally. Good sign, that. He wasn't completely dehydrated, then. And given the sensitivity to bladder palpation, John was fairly certain he would figure it out when Sherlock needed the loo. 

After confirming he was warm enough, tucked back in beneath the duvet, John helped himself to a yoghurt, and carried a bottle of water back to the bedroom. It was interesting that Mycroft hadn't even needed to ask him about his typical treatment plan, his practices, or even sleeping preferences. Then with chagrin, he recalled that Mycroft had compromised his former patients somehow, and in all probability his own medical history (and beyond, obviously, given his apparent knowledge about John's injury), so determining small details like sleeping arrangements was probably an easy discovery.

Eventually he silenced the music stream, dimmed the lighting. By the time John had put on pyjama pants of his own, Sherlock was showing signs of restlessness again. His skin was very warm, breathing was shallow, heart rate was elevated, pulse oximetry a little lower. This time it stayed there.

He placed a hand over Sherlock's forehead. "Let's get you up for a visit to the loo, Sherlock." John pulled out a few tricks to attempt to rouse him enough to move on his own steam, but the one that ended up working was a very gentle crede's manoeuver of Sherlock's abdomen directly over his bladder.

"Jeeez Christ! Off me," he slurred, but did manage to sit up. Disconnecting both pulse oximeter and aseptically capping the IV, John eased Sherlock to something of a sitting position.

"Don't get up yet. Sit a moment." John kept a hand on Sherlock's torso, partially to help hold him up but also to be able to predict where his weak muscles might fail him. He leaned quite far forward over his feet, off the edge of the bed, and John held firm. "Wait."

Sherlock's head raised then, pale eyes meeting John's in confusion. There was so much nystagmus that John knew he couldn't be seeing anything too clearly. "Who the fuck 'r you?"

I'm your worst nightmare, he wanted to say. I am sobriety. I am recovery. The options were endless. Settling on the truth, he said, "Your brother hired me to help you get better."

"No. 'M fine. Get out." And with that, Sherlock stood, legs bobbling and threatening to buckle even as he reached out both arms in a desperate attempt to avoid the floor.

"Sure thing, whatever you say," he quipped, using both hands to steady Sherlock's body and ready with his knee and legs to brace a fall if necessary. "Loo first."

By some sort of miracle, Sherlock did manage to only trip once but did not reach the floor the short walk to the toilet. "Leave," he managed to fuss at John.

"Not a chance," he said, as Sherlock's eyes closed as he sat. "And we'll need a sample, so here," he said, offering out a wipe with sterile specimen cup at the ready. "Wash off first, mid-stream collection please."

"Piss off," he said, and then said it again with something of a giggle.

"Oh, you're right hysterical you are."

For all the fussing that could have then ensued, the patient did end up cooperating under John's directions, but not without at least verbally protesting every step of the way. John had to prod and then prompt through collection, where to set the container, then when to stand back up, and through at least a minimally effective hand-washing.

Exhausted, Sherlock managed to ambulate - stagger, more like - to the bed, but once he'd sat down, he collapsed in the direction of the pillows. His heart rate was markedly elevated, John could see on the oxygen monitor when he'd reconnected, no reserve, probably nutritionally deficient as well as impending withdrawal, given the history he'd gleaned. He remained asleep through John's tucking him back onto the pillow, sheet placed, IV reconnected, and did not appear bothered in the least that John left the reading light on. He dipped the urine sample then set the rest to the other specimens awaiting collection. Positive for ketones and protein but not for glucose, specific gravity elevated, still dehydrated. He settled, and continued to alternate between reading from his computer screen and watching the patient.

He heard the fax machine some time later, arose to evaluate the blood work that had been sent, found his haemoglobin and blood counts low, knowing it would go lower still, given the dilution also effect of the needed fluids that he was currently receiving. His chemistries were fairly abnormal but nothing that had him ready to call for an ambulance. The more critical results was a perilously low albumin, given the degree of malnourishment. No infection, bleeding studies normal, liver enzymes elevated, blood alcohol level undetectable.

Sometime later, he tweaked the alarms of the monitors, readied himself for sleep, adjusted the lamp, slept very lightly himself, there on the cot tucked into the corner of Sherlock's room. He'd already hung a new IV bag, and began to learn Sherlock's breathing pattern and rhythm, which would come in handy when and if it changed, as even when John was dozing, his mind was still paying attention.

++

"You're needed in post op again," the voice sounded, along with a hesitant tap on his wrist. Canvas under him, hot smells of sand and the distant acridness of blood were a vivid reminder of his station, location, and job. Night shift call, then. He'd been shaken awake by the nurse, Tom, who'd been working with John in their nightmare of traumatic injuries. "Chip wants to give report bedside, you've a bunch in the ward, one really sick ..."

Having only slept a minimal few hours, exhausted - they all were - John's feet went into boots, stood with the off-going doc, and report ended up at bedside of one boy, including the words hot mess, train wreck, and good luck. Surgery had already happened, and they were left with impending critical illness and haemorrhagic shock. Tom, the nurse had a unit full of 10 other patients, he kept to them, John rounded on them briefly, came back to the ill soldier, lowered his body into a chair, nothing to do but wait, blood was infusing, more surgery would kill him, as multi-system organ failure set in. They could only hope for the best. He wrote a few orders, the ward settled, and he closed his eyes.

Only to awaken to the sound of something different, patterned breathing no longer as expected. Shallow, weak efforted breathing. More pallor than earlier.

He sat forward, focusing on the face, and was dimly aware Tom, the nurse at his elbow. John cycled a blood pressure, lifted the blanket to find more drainage, the man's dressing saturated over a rigid abdomen.

"It's all right," John said, low. "You're okay." A flicker of the patient's eyelids, confused. John reached up a hand to his temple, brushed once. "Rest now." A faint nod. "Need pain medicine?" Another nod. To Tom, John breathed, "Morphine two."

"Morphine two," he echoed. "Back to the OR?"

Sadly, John looked up at Tom, knowing the motivation for the question, wanting to fix the unfixable problem. John shook his head. That quickly, there was a groan, a grimace, a hitch in his breathing. Almost as rapidly as they both watched it happen, the patient's colour went from pale to cyanotic to lifeless gray.

The heart monitor alarm sounded then, heart rate elevating from eighty, to 100, 130, then an abrupt drop to forty, a few wide beats, and then pulseless electrical activity, all other waveforms gone. An agonal gasp, and then nothing. There hadn't been time to obtain let alone administer the narcotic; his suffering was over.

A lot of hand connections - John's over the patient's shoulder, Tom's on the patient's hand, and then, with an exchanged glance, Tom's hand on John's shoulder and almost immediately John's hand coming down over Tom's. Full circle, caregivers to patient, caregiver to caregiver, and back. There was a soft squeeze, a brush, all completely a very human show of support, the acknowledgment that sometimes there was still nothing that could be done except be present.

"You knew before it happened."

"His breathing changed, woke me up."

"You never turn it off, then, eh Captain?" Another patient called out Tom's name softly, and he moved away. John took a deep breath, himself, reached out to tighten the roller clamps in the IVs and blood products, halting the infusions. The patient's eyes were already closed.

++

It was only a short time later that he awakened to the sense of his intrinsic radar alarming, something brewing, higher energy, a bit of impending distress.

It marked the beginning of a very long stretch of time. The quick breathing turned into marginally laboured breathing, too quick, signs of distress. It was accompanied by sweating and shaking, both pulse and blood pressure high, febrile. Sherlock sweated off the pulse oximeter sensor, so John left it off temporarily. Sherlock quickly drenched the pillowcase and sheets, and the towels that John brought from the loo across the hall were also quickly dampened and rumpled in Sherlock's restlessness. But the worst part was the restlessness, the obvious perception that his body had been deprived of something, as his tissues protested and screamed out for relief, for medication, for escape, for soothing.

The IV remained intact, and several bags infused, a bit of dextrose and some electrolytes. He got quite skilled at assessing bladder distention, and Sherlock fussed less when John cued him through the routine. The tremors and tachycardia, however, did not seem to be abating even after a few hours. Another text to Mycroft, as John requested and received a few additions as far as medications and supplies, which was thankfully delivered promptly. Lorazepam was given in incremental doses with some effect, and although it was a trade-off to natural detoxification, it was certainly safer to withdraw with pharmacologic assistance when there were other comorbidities. When the day gave way to night and to another day, John bathed the patient again, changing pyjamas and bedding. He was exhausted, himself, after continual monitoring and wondering. While John had only used the availability of an assistant a few times over the past year, he put one of them on standby just in case additional hands were needed.

Later that day, he managed a quick shower as Sherlock slept. Although John found it tiring, he felt infinitely better afterward. It gave him an idea.

++

"Come on, you. Bath."

"Fuck off."

"Nice mouth," John said, wrapping his arm around Sherlock's ribs and hoping that his feet would manage to at least off-load some of his weight.

"Who'r you again?"

"Mycroft's idea of trying to help you recover."

Had Sherlock the energy, John was fairly certain he would have rolled his eyes. As it was, John staggered with him a bit, letting him perch on the closed toilet while the tub continued to fill. Testing the water, he was amazed not for the first time that sometimes he felt like an overqualified nanny, or an overpaid babysitter. "God, he's 'diculous."

John handed Sherlock a toothbrush. Who stared at it, stupidly, as if he didn't recognise it and didn't understand what John's nonverbal request was. "Brush your teeth, Mr. Holmes."

"Don't call me that."

"Then take the toothbrush." Still staring. " _Mr_. _Holmes_ ," John pressed, bobbing it in his line of vision.

"You're a royal pain in my arse."

"Which your brother pays me well to be. Which is more than you can say, isn't it? You choose to be difficult for free."

Sherlock made a few swipes with the toothbrush as John turned off the bath water, testing it again. John considered that Sherlock was still very weak, and had to reach out an arm to steady him from bobbling onto the floor.

"In you get," he prompted, pointing.

"Soon 's you leave."

"So you can drown? Not a bloody chance."

"No."

John stretched a bit, then reached for the hem of the tee shirt, began to raise it, which Sherlock managed to allow. From a standing position in front of him, then he tugged on his arms until he stood. "Off," he said to Sherlock, reaching for the tie of the bottoms. With a shaky movement of his hand, Sherlock reached down and grabbed the entire front of the pyjama pants in protest. John chuckled. "Listen, you can argue with me and this will be a non-stop battle, which I will win, mind, or you can cooperate and we can get this over with. You've been sweating and laying in it for a whole day, the bed-bath cloths are only so good."

"No looking," he fussed and released his hand.

John ended up keeping up a constant stream of distracting chatter as he washed Sherlock's scarred back first, aware of how he tensed at the touch but Sherlock kept silent. While John wanted to ask, he did not, knowing it was definitely not the time. Sherlock was able to wash his own face, then John had him tip his head back while he shampooed and rinsed. Both of those activities seemed to be quite enjoyed, though Sherlock didn't admit to it, he definitely moaned a few times and relaxed under John's touch.

Working efficiently, John washed long limbs, carefully keeping the capped IV site from getting wet, moved on to his feet, everything in between without further discussion. Sherlock had simply leaned his head back against the tub enclosure, eyes closed, too fatigued to complain any longer or with any oomph behind it. Quickly, John flipped the drain to empty, and wrapped Sherlock's head in a towel to prevent heat loss, then boosted Sherlock to the tub edge, wrapped another towel, and finally eased him to the mat on the floor, where he more or less collapsed against the side of the tub. Sherlock's eyes stayed closed, and he didn't move as John stalked out of the room.

John brusquely changed the entire bed with fresh sheets. Returning to the bathroom, he cued Sherlock through the donning of pyjama pants, although by that point it was limited to commands like 'pick up your foot' and 'budge over', he was that drained. John then partially encouraged, partially lifted him back toward the bedroom. It wasn't until Sherlock had tumbled onto the bed, duvet pulled to his chin, that John sighed deeply, beyond exhausted himself. He applied the pulse oximeter, mostly for his own peace of mind, decided that a night without IV fluids would hopefully ensure he would both eat and drink the following day. Plus, he was hopeful that Sherlock might actually sleep uninterrupted for a few hours, given that they were both tired. The constant vigilance and long hours of watching and attending to Sherlock's safety had taken a toll.

The shaking Sherlock developed, that began after the shower was of a different variety entirely, simply an intrinsic response to abrupt change in body temperature coupled with calorie burning and exhaustion. Debating only briefly, John toed off his slippers, assembled necessary items within arms reach, and grabbed his own blanket. Wrapping it around him, he perched on the top of Sherlock's bed, a hand placed on Sherlock's arm, meant to be a centering, grounding weight. He adjusted the pillow, closed his own eyes just for what would only be a minute until Sherlock's body adjusted, equilibrated, allowing him to fall asleep. "Sleep now, you're all right." He let his arm brush over Sherlock's shoulder then down to his elbow. Shuddering, Sherlock shifted just a bit closer, pressing nearer for warmth and in response to John's presence. The shaking was still strong, and John sighed, hoping the tremors would ease as he began to get warm. Eventually, it subsided in gradual waves, and finally Sherlock's breathing eased to steady, even, deep. John pressed his hand up against Sherlock's towel-dried hair, brushing it off his forehead. "Better?" but it was obvious that he was. As he could feel the muscles relax against his side, he could tell that Sherlock was still awake although much improved from earlier.

"Thanks," the weak voice near his shoulder whispered.

"Of course. Sleep now, you're safe," he said, brushing casually over Sherlock's back and feeling the faint ridges of scars through the soft tee shirt. Their origin was still a mystery.

He'd only meant to stay a moment, until Sherlock had nearly fallen asleep, enough for John to head back to his own bed. As it turned out, they were both sound asleep when Sherlock must have entered REM sleep, and John himself was just lightly dozing when a combination of internal and external stimuli converged, collided. Outside the flat, down the street, there was the distant sound of a vehicle, too fast, the screeching of brakes, a horn, followed immediately by a rather loud, harsh crash. John was dimly aware that there were voices tending to the immediate needs there, but only briefly when his own situation escalated.

Sherlock must have been at a vulnerable place in his sleep phase, or dreaming, because as he jolted awake, he flinched. Then outright _panicked._  

It would be long minutes before Sherlock's calling out stopped, the flailing of limbs fighting and pushing, the uncontrolled trying to get away, the inability to process even the simplest of reassurances. It took all of John's wits to calm Sherlock down, to let him eventually just tire himself out, there on the bed, with John's legs pinning Sherlock's longer ones, and holding his wrists such that neither of them were harmed in the struggle. The forced restriction, the partial immobility, was what finally seemed to help.

In the end, both wide awake, two people, breathing loud, hearts pounding, trying to assess the findings, do damage control, determine the next step. John's mind had somewhat been falsely assured that now that the physical addiction and detoxification symptoms had abated, that perhaps the real recovery could begin now. However, having just been enlightened, he realised that Sherlock's real struggles went deeper.

John's words had been all soothing, quiet pleadings - you're okay, stop, I'm here, don't fight, relax here, I've got you, please, you're safe, safe, _safe_.

Sherlock had uttered only one phrase over and over:  don't hurt me.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things will get moving in just a bit, where more medical intervention is required - but next up, a few snippets of back story!
> 
> ++
> 
> Please let me know - nicely - if I missed anything or if a typo slipped by. Thanks for reading along.


	4. Who Hurt You? part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The loud crash from an auto accident down the street late one night has startled and upset Sherlock, and as John manages to comfort him, he utters a plea: don't hurt me. 
> 
> John takes care of things, because that what John does. And what John _is._
> 
> Sherlock, however, is not particularly open to being cared about. We know how he feels about caring. And who he learned it from.

Gradually, John could feel very minutely that Sherlock's muscles were no longer threatening tetany, his shoulders still tense but his legs quivering as they relaxed. The quick respiratory rate seemed to ease, and John very minimally allowed the leg that he'd thrown over Sherlock's to lighten up, give him more room, fully slide off. It had been instinctual, the limb restriction, the restraining of flailing limbs - that with the steady flow of calming words - and Sherlock was at least no longer panicking on the outside.

"You know where you are?"

Single nod.

John chose to believe his charge. "You are safe here."

There was a shrug, the clear response that Sherlock had heard him but did not fully agree.

"I'm not going to hurt you." The arms John was holding were slightly trembling, and he eased his grip from Sherlock's upper body. "See, you're okay."

Dimly, John could hear the accident of whatever type being addressed, the arrival of another vehicle or two, flashing lights barely visible behind the draperies, the sound of unintelligible words of distant emergency responders. He reached one arm around for his mobile, which he'd set in arms reach, slid and flicked until the flashlight was on. He set it behind them so it cast a faint glow behind them, and looked to see if Sherlock's eyes were open.

They were. And they were wet eyes, shimmering, tear tracks. Without much conscious thought, John picked up the top edge of the sheet, blotted Sherlock's face, letting it fall. "I'm sorry you're upset," he said quietly, and with one arm reached behind Sherlock, touching reassuredly on the shoulder simply as a manner of comfort. Unfortunately, outside on the street, at that moment there was a shifting of vehicle, flatbed being unhinged perhaps, bumper falling loudly against something immovable. Whatever the source, something solid ended up striking the pavement, grating and echoing, precisely at the moment John's hand pressed against Sherlock's back. His _scarred_ back.

He tightened, flinched at the touch, trying to pull away.

John let go immediately, watching in the side-lit room as Sherlock grabbed at the blanket, pulled it up and burrowed his face in it.

++

Mycroft had looked up when his door opened suddenly. An urgent finding, he knew immediately, given the interruption and the look on his PAs face.

"We have a problem." Mycroft saved and closed his current working screen project, bringing up security feeds on the adjacent monitor as the man said, "Camera View 15C."

Nausea settled immediately in the pit of his stomach and he bloody knew: It was Sherlock. Sherlock who was supposed to deliver a message, and that was all. _Steady. You can fix this._

A couple of months ago, Sherlock had been found, not specifically what Mycroft would consider overdosed but quite impaired, had been brought to Mycroft's home until he sobered up. Mycroft had talked, pleaded, cajoled, threatened, and finally succeeded. He got his brother to agree to do something productive, something that would at least keep his mind and body occupied from time to time. In exchange for Mycroft pulling some favours regarding his university, he also agreed to avoid the more serious recreational drugs - having discovered the thrills of cocaine and heroin - they both would share the occasional cigarette, and Mycroft hoped the substitution would buy them enough time for Sherlock to both do Mycroft's bidding and pursue something of benefit. His early assignments including gathering information, listening to conversations where Mycroft knew there was exchange of material or goods, observe behaviour or various activities. This last time, there had been a quick plane trip and a personal meeting had been arranged. It was supposed to be safe, include cursory observations and the delivery of a verbal message, and Sherlock was supposed to have returned home.

The grainy view on video feed 15C however, as it loaded, made Mycroft break out into a cold sweat. Sherlock on camera, shirtless, arms outstretched, head lolling about, feet barely holding him up, a burly masked man behind him, something in his hand...  The rubbish bin was just barely close enough that he managed to be sick into it.

"Retrieval. Immediately." He said, wiping his mouth, another retch working it's way up. "Send the team that had extracted the hostages out of Myanmar." It had been successful for the hostages, scorched earth for the captors.

"Yes sir, right on it."

++

The coincidental collision of John's hand in Sherlock's personal space and Sherlock's memory seemed to outright sizzle in the room, and John, no stranger to handling emotional trauma, whispered quietly, again, "You're safe here, Sherlock. _Safe_ ," and though he removed his hands he did not shy away. Heat radiated from his patient, stress and sweaty exertion and increased metabolic rate, catecholamine surges, as Sherlock's mind tried to choose between fight or flight. Despite the temperature rising, John let the covers alone, giving Sherlock the illusion of protection he was seeking, hiding beneath the sheet. 

"I'm thinking a cup of tea'd be nice about now." Despite the statement, he made no efforts to move right away. "Want one?" From under the covers there was a single, negative shake of his head. "You alright if I step out, just a couple of minutes?" He thought he would bring him one anyway, something about hot tea soothing emotional upset might be worth a try.

A hesitancy and a small shrug. John took that as a no, and Sherlock turned over, a quick repositioning putting his back to John. John could almost imagine the unspoken _if you're going to leave me I'm leaving you first_.

"You know," John posed quietly, "I think I'll wait."

Their breathing and pulse rates settled, eased off, diaphoretic skin cooling and drying. Eventually, there were no further sounds from out on the street, vehicles moved or towed, the cluster of activity ended, and they were left with the typical late-night, muffled London sounds, people occasionally walking or driving, a distant dog barking, an even more rare quiet horn from far away. 

"Who --?" John began to ask but stopped, wanting to let his fingers brush comfortingly along the hidden marks along Sherlock's back but knowing it wasn't quite the right time. Why? Punished for something? Held hostage, whipped? Fetish gone awry? he wondered at the realm of explanations. Whatever it was, couldn't have been too long ago. He hesitated, decided to finish the question, gentle and quiet. "Who hurt you?"

_Who hurt you?_

The question got Sherlock's attention, not in the words but the delivery, and he glanced back over his shoulder at the raw brokenness, the roughness, of John's words. John, who was watching him, seemed unaware of the intonation, the inflection. Even in the state he was, Sherlock was certainly aware that something was not quite right with his companion, something hidden, some history.

John misinterpreted Sherlock's movement, his attention, and thought perhaps he'd begun to reach through. A hand touched Sherlock's posterior shoulder, light, gentle, warm. "Someone hurt you, obviously. And I can certainly listen if you want to share it." When Sherlock continued to stare, John continued, his fingers tracing one of the deeper lines, assessing for depth, severity, scar tissue. He tried to steel his temper, gentle his voice, soften his tone. "If you're worried about visitors, they are not permitted until cleared by me, including your pompous arse of a brother."

Too close, Sherlock knew, and deliberately seized upon a deflection, pointing out a red herring. "My head hurts." It was also not untrue.

"If you're asking me for narcotics, there aren't any in the flat."

"You could get some."

"Of course I could. But I won't. Absolutely not."

"My _head hurts_ ," he said again, a little more emphatically, and John could well believe it. Between the bath earlier, the shaking, the sweating worsening his dehydration, the emotional upset, the triggering factor of the accident outside, and even more importantly the recent and probably ongoing physical detoxification processes, he would have been shocked if there was no headache involved. "Ten out of ten." Had John been less sympathetic, he would have snickered at Sherlock's ingrained use of the pain scale that providers used to assess pain.

"I'm sure you're dehydrated, need fluids. First step in managing most headaches. You want water or tea?"

"No."

"Paracetamol, then. After a full glass of water."

"No."

"All right, then. You're left with my stimulating company, then."

A small snort, then, and Sherlock looked away again, still with his back to John.

"Your headache will probably only get worse if you don't make something of an effort."

"IV fluids."

"You're perfectly capable of drinking."

"I thought you were hired to help me."

John did chuckle at that. " _I am_." He hoped Sherlock believed that, that each gentle persuasion, each refusal, was with the intent toward helping him. The motion of Sherlock's back under John's hand that was still lightly on his shoulder was nothing short of an indignant huff. Changing tacks, John let his thumb trace one of the scars carefully, the tee shirt a soft layer between their skin. "This one didn't heal too evenly. A little sensitive, still?"

There was a twitch of Sherlock's shoulder, similarly to the reflexive jolt a horse or cow uses to flick off a pesky fly.

John wasn't swayed into moving his hand, but did stop the investigative effort of his thumb. “What person hurt you?”

The snarky lifting of the corner of Sherlock’s mouth was absolutely telling. He reacted to the use of John’s word ‘person.’

“Ah,” John said, “that is helpful. Not one person. Multiple persons then, _people_. You might even have quite a list of offenders in that mighty brain of yours.” Sherlock felt the bed dip as John moved. "I'm getting tea, Sherlock. I'll bring you a cup back. Two sugars, yeah?"

++

Indeed, Sherlock thought to himself, a list with many offenders over many years. Many of them didn’t mean to be hurtful, he knew now, but then, people were stupid, unthinking, unsympathetic, just forcing their own agendas on those in less powerful of a position than themselves. He could hear John out in the kitchen. Kettle, water, mug, counter, spoon.

Sherlock could have written or spoke, if he chose, quite a long list. Instead, he reflected. Who hurt me? His thoughts wandered to very early memories indeed.

All the ways Sherlock ended up isolated as a child. Earliest memories, family outings and being chided for asking too many questions, too curious, running off excitedly and seeing new things worthy of investigating grew wearying on the rest. So his parents would cite higher reasons, visit places "for older children" and go off with Mycroft. He would be left in care of nanny or butler without engagement or connection, who would be with him in physical presence, but the caring never made it to their eyes. One or two of them had called him 'high maintenance' within his hearing, and it would be long in the future before he realised it was a harsh criticism.

Young school memories, excitement about academia, an early and voracious reader who discovered the pleasure of solitude and enlightenment. He dashed far ahead of his classmates, answered too many questions first, and if unstimulated would end up bored in the classrooms - to his teachers' chagrin. He found a love of the sciences and hands on chemical reactions, a pure discovery of natural physics and life science reactions through experimentation. There had been a primary education science project and science fair with an amazing grade, stellar work beyond his years. Unfortunately, it earned him the disdain from peers even then and the teasing taunts of geek, nerd, brain. One had used the word 'freak.' When his face showed the hurt, it was seized by others, became his nickname until summer holiday. _Freak._

Years later the word still had significant power over him, bringing back the isolation, the hurt, the nausea. On the inside, anyway.

There was even one of Sherlock’s earlier secondary science instructors, Mr. Longmire, criticising his application of the scientific method to his plant growth project as affected by various light filters. Sherlock would long remember the sting of the words more than the actual turn of phrase, but both had remained hurtful, had not lost their bite on his memory. “That’s making a bold assumption up front. Your applications might be right, but the process isn't, which makes you wrong. You’re going about this backwards, Sherlock. People don’t do things this way, and you’ll never succeed unless you learn to keep it simple and follow the rules.”

There was the obligatory church attendance on major religious holidays, and Sherlock accompanied, sitting in the family pew between Mycroft and his mum. The singing interested him, particularly the Latin pieces, the same words from year to year, and the incense from the thurible served only to irritate his nasal passages and make his eyes water. When he wasn’t looking around at the ornate sanctuary and admiring the monstrance, he would chance to sneak a look at a few of the other children. One of these, a girl about his age smiled briefly, gave him a look of interest until another little boy seated near her noticed, leaned close, whispered something clearly disparaging, and the two of them giggled quietly, snubbed him directly. She never spared him another glance. He withered just a little bit inside, and the following year, memories still vivid, he conjured up a bit of vomiting in order to stay home with one of the nannies. The year after, he wasn't asked to join.

He learned to keep his eye contact to himself. If you don’t look at them directly, he realised, the hurt of their despisement was less.

At home, Sherlock learned quickly to be more self-sufficient, to lean on his own understanding, a high-priced lesson. The turning point drove hard the message one day, when in his mind, he'd finally achieved something deserving celebration. The trophy, his trophy, awarded school-wide was wrapped in his jacket, crammed into his backpack, and he was nearly vibrating with excitement to share it with mum, dad, and Mycroft. Instead of the family turning in his direction, however, when he arrived to the sitting room, words already erupting from his excited mouth, he was shushed quickly, a serving girl arriving to literally place her fingers to his mouth, shoo him from the room with a curt, busy, Master Holmes, we’ll call you for dinner. When he thought about it later, he wished he'd bitten the maid.

Seated at his desk in his room then, while he waited, he considered that he had indeed trumped the school, been selected as best scholar, his project gaining notice of not only his own school but others in the area and his moment, his time, was still worthy to share. The dinner summons happened, and before he could share anything, before anyone even really noticed him, his mum was in tears. “Mycroft is leaving home in a few weeks, Sherlock. You need to grow up and help, stay out of everyone's way while we get him ready.” Further explanations ensued, where he was told Mycroft was going to be fast tracked to government spot with an internship through his university, there would be quite a bit of energy expended on his future involvement, and that Sherlock was going to be in a rather tall shadow going forward. The words may have been different, but the message was quite clearly received. "You understand, don't you dear?" they'd asked him. You’re a leftover, a second thought, an add on. He was being left behind. His own news not only paled, but bittered and festered.

Dinner was abysmal. There was no appetite. He poked at his food, was reprimanded for not being more excited for his older and rather successful brother. The nausea was quite genuine as he excused himself from the table, shoving back as bile rose in his throat.

He hid the trophy, the certificate, and his hopes under his bed. 

The evening he'd wanted, celebrating wth family, positive affirmation, had turned into an unpleasant association, leaving him alone and ignored. It was the last time he would give them the power to hurt him, he thought. The very last time indeed that he would allow himself to be vulnerable.  It would be the last time he stuck out his proverbial neck at home, looking for accolades, approval.

The violin that night, his obligatory thirty minute practice time was deliberately screechy, non-productive, avoiding every finger exercise his teacher had laid out. The strings hissed, out of tune intentionally and with little care other than to make the worst noise he could generate, until finally the butler knocked rather timidly at the door. "Master Sherlock," he said, tentatively, waited for Sherlock to stop and look up at him. There was the faint cloy of his father's pipe, the late night ritual in the study. The butler'd been sent, Sherlock knew, by his family to shut him up. "Beg pardon, but the hour grows late, and I wonder if you couldn't be troubled to save your ... _practicing_ for tomorrow?"

++

The kettle hummed, bubbled, finally clicked off. John selected one of the Earl Grey varieties, obviously selected intentionally for Sherlock, had been guessing on the sugar quantity but given the new box next to it, he thought perhaps he'd been correct. Perhaps this cup of tea would be the beginning of stimulating Sherlock's appetite, the gateway to nutrition, healing, sustenance, hydration, energy to get on with things as he recovered.

He hoped. Pocketing a few snacks in case Sherlock did actually seem interested, he picked up both mugs, thinking that even if Sherlock didn't, he would find the tea to be quite satisfying. 

++

He spent more time at school, citing that he'd joined a club or a sports team and neither parent even attempted to see through the blatancy of the fabrication. He'd located the hangouts, where there were no expectations and no scruples. He found himself on the receiving end of mockery from a random punk from school from whom Sherlock had bummed his very first fag from. When the boy reached over to light it, Sherlock inhaled, choked quite violently, and was on the receiving end of quite a bit of bullying from the boy and those in the vicinity. The spluttering and coughing may not have lasted, nor did the watery eyes and high colour about his face, but the need for revenge took roots. No more, he thought. Time to carefully select a new skill set, given that academia had bought him nothing so far.

That weekend, Sherlock stole some money from one of the housekeepers, bought his own pack of cigarettes, and, armed with videos he'd found on the internet, smoked them all, every last one. The resultant vomiting felt like self-flagellation, the punishment for being different, the penance for wrongdoings. The righteousness and sense of accomplishment at the end felt like a step up. He'd had enough of the vulnerability, and if this is what it took, then he was all about ending past associations.

He did more than only learn to smoke a cigarette. And smoke it well, though he refrained from more than a few at a time. He could link rings, adjoin rings, puff rings, and then direct a small column of smoke through them to connect them. He found camaraderie with those in detention, with others who smoked, the commonality with the commonplace and the stupid. He was with a group one afternoon when restless boredom went rogue and school vandalism had occurred. Unfortunately, he did not see it coming, and the new group of these acquaintances offered him up as the sacrificial lamb, his idea, his plan, his doing. He alone was suspended from school.

Oh yes, the list of those who’d hurt him was quite long indeed.

Smoking led to other groups, older university students who had other ideas, other means of mind alteration. It eventually brought him to a supplier of cocaine, an acquaintance named Victor. And Sherlock still refused to think about Victor. Most of the time, anyway.

He grew out his hair not because he enjoyed it, but motivated only after his mum suggested a trim cut to keep his curls under control. Spitefully, he grew his hair to great proportions and reveled in his extensive unruliness, from his curls to his behaviour. He did the homework for his classes, didn’t turn it in, deliberately scored low on tests, ended up in scholastic trouble much of the time. The academic dean summoned him more than once, and the letters would be sent home. His parents offered to hire him a tutor and when he refused, they let the matter drop.

Who hurt me? he thought. Who _didn't_ hurt me?

Right on the heels of that thought, though, was another:  _And shame on me for letting them._

++

Distantly, as if from underwater or through a far-off tunnel, Sherlock could hear shouting, footsteps, the staccato burst of what he assumed must've been guns being fired. His back ached, his arms stretched and screaming with the fiery pain of both inner and outer abuse inflicted on them. Every now and again, he could feel the faint crawl of congealing blood as it trickled down about his torso. Was it possible, his mind poked at him, to will oneself to unconsciousness, to unresponsiveness? If there was a gunshot wound in his future, it would be nice to skip the fear entirely, be unaware of the actual bullet trajectory and penetration.

Apparently willful loss of consciousness was not possible. Agony kept him pinned in the moment, in limbo, suspended in both literal and figurative senses.

Pounding at the closed door, interruption of the burly man over his left shoulder, his penchant for deducing the man long past, so the pounding was loud and resonating in the silent room. Kicking, the heavy sole of steel boots, a loud boom as something exploded the door lock. It swung open to reveal a black-garbed militant, cap, facepaint, eyes glittering, rifle shouldered. Another burst, loud ringing in Sherlock's ears, exacerbating the pounding of blood, heart attempting to deliver more oxygen, higher cardiac output, haemorrhaging increasing in a terrible cycle of harmful synergy - more blood, more blood loss. Another soldier behind the first, each spoke quietly, neither specifically to Sherlock.

Blades were produced from belt-holders, his arms freed, and he was too weak to anything but crumple to the floor in an ungainly heap.

From there, the recollections grew even more jumbled, blurry.

A car, a blanket, a medic, liquid medication that dulled his mind and brought, finally, the blessed relief of pain reduction, a drug-induced sleep.

A bed, pillow, warm blanket, the medical scent of some sort of clinic, staff in soft-soled shoes. His eyes, half open, half closed, caught the outline of someone in her vision in front of him. "Ah, Mr. Holmes, good, you're awake."

Sherlock opened his eyes, unseeing, unfocused, and unwilling to particularly engage. There was pain, aching, fatigue, not all of his synapses and faculties complete restored and his mind dull. Something cool touched his ear, _"Sherlock? Sherlock, oh thank god."_

"My?" he whispered into the mobile, voice harsh, parched, dry, barely audible.

"My team reports you'll be all right."

A guttural noise was all Sherlock felt necessary.

"I'll be seeing you on your return."

"No."

"Yes, of course. You can debrief the committee on what went wrong, but I must tell you, going forward you are going to have to follow instructions to the letter, this deviation from protocol is most concer--"

The growl from within Sherlock's chest, weak though it was, surprised the person holding the mobile to Sherlock's ear and his eyes cut quickly to Sherlock, who summoned every last bit of energy, pushed and flung at the phone. The effort exquisitely activated every pain receptor from the top of his head down. The mobile gave a mildly satisfying crackle as it landed on its edge a few feet away on the lino, a starburst shatter of the screen, and broke into silent pieces.

++

On his comfortable (and mostly clean, thanks to John) sheets, on his expensive mattress in his family-funded flat, he knew that this person who'd been brought, hired, paid to help him was just another who would try, fail, and who would leave, and if Sherlock wasn't careful, would hurt him too, just like the others. Paid to take the role of a friend - though this one was a bit more invested, intriguing, an unsolved mystery. But when the pay ended, when he'd been determined a waste of time and effort - so did the possibility of Sherlock's discoveries, of a distraction, a very shallow interaction. He was another job, another task, another number, another paycheck.

Caring, Mycroft told him a very long time ago, was not an advantage. It'd taken him a long time to build his protective walls up high enough. He imagined a tower, another layer of pointed stone and masonry being adjusted, laid around the top, each piece angled just perfectly and pressed into place. Another row higher, another protective sealing of mortar.

John gentled even more, his voice, his manner, his body language. From Sherlock's vantage point, peeking out from underneath the damp sheet edge, he could see that his keeper, his minder, - _jailer, perhaps?_ \- John, comfortably relaxing in the chair. For all John's relaxed demeanor, Sherlock knew he was on high alert, all hackles raised, very keen. “Sherlock, truly, I just want to help you move beyond whatever demons are chasing you. So,” he said, calm and steady, “what's got such a grip on you?” John crossed an ankle over a knee, sipping at his tea. Sherlock's cup sat steaming next to the bed, and he inhaled - detecting both brand and sweetener method. He wanted it, yet resisted.

As John waited, he turned on a smaller lamp, casting a warm glow to the room. Sherlock could almost hear his clinician mind, always looking to assess, gather data, get a good look at his patient or client. The symbolism of _illumination_ was not lost on Sherlock - John was trying to get a glimpse of things that Sherlock'd worked hard to keep quite safely hidden.

"I'm here, waiting, whenever or if ever you're ready." John seemed to savour the tea, picked up a biscuit he'd obviously brought with him, gestured in Sherlock's direction, an offer to hand one to him. Sherlock let his non-responsiveness be his answer, and John muttered a quick all right, took a bite himself. 

++

 _Who hurt you?_ had been the question.

Sherlock could have named those many people, or the person who’d introduced him to cocaine, perhaps named Victor. Victor played him, fueled his addiction, his being used for only the brilliance of Sherlock's mind, the ultimate betrayal, his hateful manipulation, abandoning him without a second thought. It had evoked Mycroft's discovery, and then his brief sober debt to his brother that ended in a spectacularly bad scene involving a whip. Once captured, he'd been unable to keep silent, seeing the treachery, and then thoughtlessly and heedlessly provoked his tormentors. He'd brought about perhaps much harsher treatment and injury than if he'd been smart, kept quiet, been a better game-player.

Other people, he'd learned, were idiots, the lot of them not worth his time. He just bloody didn’t care anymore, had courted high risk activities and dangerous liaisons perhaps in the hope that one of these days his luck would run out. In fact, there had been the slightest twinge of relief when he'd nearly smelled death at the door, his back bloodied and barely aware. He almost regretted the timing of Mycroft's rescue. A few more minutes and it would probably all have been over.

And so began the more recent downward plunging spiral to substances, escapism, and emptiness. Which he tried unsuccessfully to fill with being clever, with more substances, with being smarter than everyone else. The rehab where he'd nearly ended it before his brother pulled him out.

John simply sat, hands clasped, elbows on his thighs, sitting near the edge of Sherlock's bed. He seemed to have grown roots and showed no sign of moving, and Sherlock finally decided that in order to be rid of him, he would answer.

"Everyone. Everyone hurt me."

John showed little reaction to the evasive answer, perhaps just a small frown from one eyebrow. Unhurried, he unfolded his hands, "All right," he said, getting up, "thank you for speaking anyway. I'll take a lie over silence this time."

"Don't pretend that you care, doctor."

"John."

"Eventually you'll give up, move on, decide I'm not worth the trouble. Everyone does." It was the most words Sherlock had spoken in a long time.

"Sounds like you're the authority on that. So you've given up on yourself too?" 

Sherlock sighed, reached a hand out for the tea next to the bed, picked it up, hoped John was watching carefully and that he was feeling faint twinges of success, of victory, of being quietly pleased, that his patient was opening up, ready to drink. He leaned up on an elbow, extended his arm holding the cup. And upended it, dumping the entire contents slowly on the floor, desiring maximum splatter. It sounded wet on the carpet, splashing at John's feet. For good measure, there was a thunk as Sherlock dropped the cup as well.

"Now," he said, flatly, glancing over to see John sitting calmly, having not moved at all, simply watching him. "About my headache..."

John waited until Sherlock's eyes were closed again before allowing himself to let the smallest smile appear on his face. _Good_ , he thought. _Making progress_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deliberately choppy, vague, and intentional flight of ideas.
> 
> I can always count on John to be gentle when needed and know _exactly when is the perfect time_ to get a little more assertive.
> 
> ++
> 
> If something snuck by me, please let me know gently. This chapter was a little angsty, a little persnickety as I tried to find the right balance between timelines. Thanks for reading.


	5. Who hurt you? part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock did not arrive at his current state of emotional disconnection in a vacuum.
> 
> Neither, apparently, did John.

_Who hurt you?_

It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d ever asked that question. He’d asked it quite a lot on his A&E rotation in med school when screening for domestic violence. He’d asked it when his sister Harry had come home from school with suspicious bruising and a torn blouse. He’d asked it of his uni roommate and of one of his early girlfriends and of a random person he’d stopped to help once in a bar brawl he’d been misfortunate enough to be present for.

Growing up, he hadn't needed to ask it of his mum. Even if he hadn't been in the house to hear the yelling and see the split lip, there was never a question of who. That had been quite obvious.

++

"Who hurt you?" John asked quietly to the tail-wagging bundle of tangled fur, giggling at the exuberance of the animal. A rough tongue swiped over his wrist as he loosened the leash that had been stuck on the corner of the fence down the road from his house. "Oh, wait, no one, you silly dog," he answered himself as his fingers pressed over the burrs that were matted in the little guy's fur. Just burrs, stuck fast. Further wiggling, licking, climbing and stepping seemed to satisfy no one as the young dog seemed hell-bent on climbing inside John's jacket, inside his very skin.

"Sshhh," he laughed at the dog's exuberance. "You're okay," he said as he picked gingerly at the burrs, freeing them from the hair at last. One final whimper and the burrs were gone, the dog's big feet managing to get stuck inside John's jacket. "Stop it, for pity's sake," and he stood then, looked around. The nearest occupied building was a small convenience store, and John led the now-prancing animal to the doorway. The smiling face of the older man at the counter beckoned.

"Is this your dog?" John asked. "Found him tangled on the fence."

"No ones," the shopkeep replied. "Saw a strange car stop couple minutes ago, hooked him there, drove off. Lotta yelling in the car, good riddance, ask me." He gestured at his cane. "Would-a got out there 'ventually." He found a cast-off bowl, filled it with water, and the dog lapped and slurped and seemed generally pleased, tail still wagging. "I'm sure he's yours if you want him. You're Watson's boy, up the road there with your mum and sister? Better check first." He was shaking his head but still smiling at John, who kept a hand on the dog. "Good luck."

"Yes sir." He'd recruit Harry to help sway their mum. Maybe now that he was twelve he could find a job to help out.

++

"It's a picture frame."

"I know that, obviously," John fired back at Harry, who had just watched him unwrap his eighteenth birthday gift.

"I hand painted the camo." The wood frame had indeed been carefully hand-painted in army fatigue camouflage, pixelated and steady. Brushing a thumb over the edges, he tilted the frame to look at the lower right corner. Harry chuckled, "Yes, and hid my initials there so you won't forget me when you deploy."

The swearing-in ceremony was in a few days, and Harry, at a few years younger than John, was intermittently fussy and blase about it. "We'll get a photo for it, you, me, and mum, yeah?" He stretched out an arm, pulled her close, adding, "I love it, thanks."

"You're sure it's okay to take with you?"

"God yeah, of course. Your paint job is amazing, Harr." The smooth, shiny polyurethane finish would protect it during travel and barracks life, John hoped. "I'll keep it forever."

++

_Who hurt you?_

He’d asked it in the army, too, when fights got out of hand, when barrack life got too boring, when there was alcohol involved. He'd been stationed outside Kandahar a long time, seen people come and go, rotating to various units. He'd asked 'who hurt you?' most noteworthy and quite memorably, to a young Afghan boy when, as Officer of the Day, he’d been summoned by a local community leader. Over the three years that John had been there, they'd had a few opportunities to cross paths about one medical need or another, but it was rare. Each respected the other, stayed out of the way as much as possible, so a summons meant something serious. Carrying his medical bag at the request of the translator, John followed the man to a small home of a poor family.

There had been a translator required for the visit, of course, though John didn't need local language skills to have his own radar activated, his body on high alert. Something had _happened_. The fear in the boys eyes when he’d seen John’s uniform - camo, tee shirt, boots - had been enlightening enough. Eyes were puffy from recently cried tears, a few fingertip-pattern bruises visible on the boy's arms, and a wounded look - John suspected mistreatment from the beginning. The examination had been as gentle as John could manage, and as soon as John had pulled back the covers, seen the deep crimson blood, he'd been fairly certain what he'd find on the boy's body.

The anal tearing had been profound, a pulsating, arterial ooze that had saturated his clothing and the bed linens, evidence of local tissue injury and bowel perforation. John worked hard at hiding any expression, knowing that his presentation, word choices, and demeanor were mission critical to the needed interventions. If the patient didn't die outright of blood loss, without intervention, the peritonitis and infection that would certainly set in would prove fatal within a few weeks. “He needs surgery or he will certainly die,” he’d said via the translator. John explained the risks of surgery vs. no surgery, explained the urgency of the procedure. A question or two had been asked, flat, emotionless. The family had stepped out of their one roomed house, ostensibly, John hoped, to come to an agreement to let John operate. Taking advantage of the momentary unsupervised time, he’d chatted a bit (weather, a toy in the room, family, the special blanket he'd been clinging to) with the boy, who was conscious, reluctantly interactive, although understandably quiet and likely in a terrible amount of pain. “Who hurt you?” John asked, in as gentle tone of voice as he could.

In answer, the boy spoke nothing, simply shook his head, looking resolutely away with wet, frightened eyes. “He is afraid,” the translator told John. “He is afraid of you and your uniform. His family may choose to let him die rather than be cared for in your military hospital.”

John looked at the boy, at the translator, could feel fury building inside as the details seemed to sharpen in his mind. “It was a soldier.”

The translator looked steadily at John, those beautiful dark Afghan eyes meeting John’s, interrupted by the occasional blink. The unspoken affirmative answer to John's not-really-a-question was obvious, and the look exchanged was solemn and poignant. “He will never give you a name.” There were a few foreign phrases exchanged then, the translator and the boy in the bed, quick sentences, matter of fact judging by the tone. “He insists that I do not answer you, do not tell you.”

John could feel his jaws clench. “I admire your loyalty to him then. I don't suppose he would change his mind, but..."

The translator was smiling sadly, shaking his head already. “He will not. The people fear retribution, you understand.”

John’s mind engaged as the boy’s family elders returned, having made their decision. They wanted assurance of his safety, and John thought perhaps they were going to refuse. John spoke of measures to keep the boy safe and protected in the army hospital. The boy's father, stoic although with an angry set of his jaw, did finally then give John permission and consent to do the surgery. When the message was communicated to the patient, John could see the shuddering and watched his fearful reaction, the dread and the pain. The lad pulled the thin blanket up over his face. There was an overwhelming urge to protect the boy, to creatively come up with ways to keep his soldier contacts to a minimum.

Protector. Defender. _And healer_ , John thought, hoping to lessen his anxiety. He accompanied the boy from the jeep transport as he was carried by stretcher into the pre-op area. He left briefly to make arrangements with the officer in charge of non-combat, emergency surgery scheduling. A group of corpsman entered the room, unfortunately, and it could not have been more clear that one of the soldiers was recognisable to the boy. There was panic, cringing, a full out fear response as the boy trembled and tried to curl into a foetal position, hiding his face behind his white-knuckled hands.

John came alongside the stretcher, said, "I'll see you in a few minutes," helped move the entourage further inside the building, to the holding area, getting the boy away from the source of his distress. He watched the stretcher then be carried into the operative suite, where he would have an IV started, antibiotic therapy, and be scrubbed for surgery. After the doors closed, he turned to stare quiet as death, at the corpsman, who stood, still watching.

An arrogant, defiant face looked back at him, the slightest smirk about his mouth. John wanted to slap it off, for starters, and approached. John thought nothing of his own stance, the bearing that came so naturally, his shoulders squared. He made a point to commit to memory the name and rank of the man from the embroidery on the uniform. Their opposition: the officer to the enlisted, Captain to Sergeant, man of integrity to abuser of children, army surgeon to rapist. His eye narrowed in response to the man’s audacity, the challenge and daring for John to act.

_Protector. Defender._

The words circled, hovered in John’s mind as he nodded once. “I'm ordering you to stay away from that patient, that's an order. Do you understand me, sergeant?”

Another smirk, "yes sir," delivered in a borderline insolent tone, mouth curled in almost a smile of having gotten away with something. John spun on his heel, headed to the operating room. There was a very small bit of a snicker as soon as his back was turned. John settled his mind despite the anger smouldering. A few deep breaths, concentration at the upcoming surgical procedure, at righting the wrong, beginning steps of a healing process, of restitution. Compartmentalise, focus. John exhaled some of the tension from his body.

The translator, in surgical hat, mask, and OR scrubs, was at the boys side already, as John had insisted at least until he was satisfactorily asleep, as John joined the OR team. John held his breath, pulled down the mask long enough to smile reassuringly at the frightened boy on the OR table, pulled the mask up quickly, not quite breaking sterility. “Tell him he’ll be safe, we’ll get him all fixed up.” He paused as the message was delivered, and the boy looked hard at John, clinging with his tear-filled eyes, his soul. “I don't suppose it is necessary to confirm, but clearly he had crossed paths with that corpsman previously? It was quite obvious to me." Brief exchange in their native language.

The translator said nothing immediately, but his face was flushed, angry, and he simply nodded. "He is very afraid."

"I need to know, is he sure that was the man?"

The translator's dark eyes grew darker. "He is sure, and so am I. It was at his hands that he suffered."

“Please tell him that I will handle things.” A scrub nurse appeared, but John continued to hold the gaze of both translator and patient. "Please assure him that he is safe here." Only then did John face the nurse who out the sterile gown to him. He deftly slid his arms in, spun so that it was tied, held out his hands, sterile gloves donned. The scar from a teenaged altercation on his left knuckle was barely visible, and then covered by the gloves. John barely thought about it anymore.

++

He'd been on his way home from his shit job at a warehouse packing, unpacking, re-packing when distracted by some yelling, a commotion down the block. While he was exhausted - long day in sixth form classes, studying for his A-levels, and working a few hours to help with family finances - whatever was happening niggled at his suspicions that something was afoot, and he hesitated only a few seconds before striding over.

His boots were loud enough to attract the attention of the three boys circled around something, and John could make out the form of a boy laying curled up in the center of the cluster of people. From a few meters away yet, he called out "Hey!"

"Mind your own fuckin' business," one of them snarled, posture aggressive, "little boy."

At sixteen, John was not tall but a tenacious athlete with a spirited competitive drive within. The group before him, probably the same age, thugs, all of them.

Five minutes later, chest heaving as he caught his breath, John leaned against a wall, wondered if his own ribs were cracked - Jesus, they hurt like a son-of-a-bitch - but he'd got a fair number of his own licks in too before someone else happened by, scared them off. He pressed against his side with his hand, knuckles bloodied, over his ribs that were already starting to swell painfully as he glanced around. The boy, the first victim, had managed to find means to scramble to safety and run away.

"You sure you're all right?" the stranger, who'd come upon them, threatened to call the police, was asking. "Want me to call someone for you?"

"'M fine," John said, wishing he wasn't as winded as he was. "Thanks." There was terrible, metallic taste in his mouth - blood of course - and he turned away, spitting, grateful that no teeth went with the wad of blood.

"Not a bad rout," impressed, he said to John, "getting rid of all three of them. I've seen them here before, up to no good."

"They ran when you came, thanks for that." The timing had been expedient, John knew. Longer would likely have gone the other way.

"You handled 'em, not me."

++

Surgery went well, with minimal blood loss despite the extensive peri-anal repair, bowel resection, and creation of a transverse colostomy to rest the bowel as it healed. John would have performed the procedure with care no matter what, but given the boy's young age and the plans for eventual reconnection and colostomy take-down, he made sure to allow for the smallest openings, healthiest tissue for reconnection, that would facilitate the most successful future surgical procedures and leave minimal scarring.

He was moved to the post operative ward, and John spoke to the charge nurse about securing a screen to cut down on visibility and contact he would have with the majority of the personnel. Once all his post op orders had been written and reviewed, John changed out of his scrubs, checked in one final time for the evening on his patient who was sleeping. He asked the nurses to let him know if there were any problems, and went immediately to present himself to the administrative assistant of the base commander.

"Sir?"

"I need to file an internal misconduct report to the MPs. Confidentially."

The form was straightforward. John detailed the facts, findings, and operative course surrounding what he knew, including the direct testimony of the boy, cited that his patient's name was being withheld, the confession and assurance of the translator, and read through the report before signing it.

The barracks he shared with a couple other guys was mostly still, guys tired from the day, seeking escape in sleep or quietly browsing the internet. Efficiently he stripped, crawled into bed. Above his bed hung a framed photo next to a unit commendation. He closed his eyes, grateful that most everyone he worked with and among were just good people.

++

John had only been there a year or so when one of the nurses approached him at breakfast one day. "Seen the headline?" She flashed her iPad his direction as she asked the question.

"No."

Reading, she smiled, "Unit achieves exemplary reduction in surgical complications." Taking a couple steps her direction, John looked at the screen to see a couple photos of their surgical team, and an article a few paragraphs long as she kept reading. They had made some changes to procedures, monitoring, and the big brass had got wind of it. "Nice to get noticed for doing something good, yeah?"

"Great article. Send me the link?"

"Better than that, They're getting copies made, framed up for us."

John glanced at the photo, a candid close-up. He was grinning from the far left edge, the team clustered about the bedside of a patient, nurse, corpsman, another doc, one of the techs. The photo would later hang on the wall by his bed and be a source of encouragement and warm memories, a visible token to the unit John took such pride in.

++

"Captain? Captain Watson?" There was a knock at his tent, where he'd been straightening up. "Sir?"

"Come," John answered, pushing the door open. There was always the possibility for an urgent summons, a bad situation, a need in the medical tent, or something else dangerous. He got the feeling, given the somber expression, it was a combination of all of them.

"The CO wants to see you, sir." Nothing further was offered. They fell into step across the base, and the other man left John at the doorway to the CO's office.

The man looked up from his desk as John entered, gestured for the door to be allowed to close and at the seat across from him. "Sir?" John finally prompted.

"I have your incident report."

"Yes sir."

"Are you certain you want to proceed?"

"Of course I am."

"There's something you should know. And then I'll give you twenty-four hours to think about it. To think about it _carefully_." Making sure he had John's full and undivided attention, he continued to speak.

++

Over coffee, sitting by himself in the mess hall, he sipped. The twenty-four hours was unnecessary, and though John had tried to answer immediately - _proceed, sir_ \- his CO refused. After leaving the office, he'd stopped in to see the boy, found him with stable vital signs, quite a bit of pain for which one of the nurses was already obtaining a paediatric dose of pain meds, but a small smile for John despite the discomfort when he recognised him.

Later that afternoon, when John was back in surgery, there was a message delivered, that the boy's nurse wanted to see him right away. John asked them to relate that he would be along at his first opportunity, finished the current case, and strode purposefully to the post op wing.

He entered quickly, looking around immediately as he sensed a heavy air about the place. It was one that seemed to settle in when in the past something had gone wrong, or unexpected, or simply a poor outcome. Another quick glance, and his eyes latched on the bed by the room divider, did a double take. There was an _empty_ bed, that had previously contained his healing young patient. The nurse who'd sent for him had already seen him enter of course, and she'd stood, crossed to him right away, began to tell him that he'd been moved. Transferred to a local, indigenous hospital for further care. The family had moved with him as well. She was apologetic, nearly in tears, told him there'd been nothing she could do, that the CO had signed off on the transfer consent, that it had happened quickly.

"I'm sorry captain," she said again, and John knew the hospital, the care, the patient's progress would take a very different course now. John could feel the heaviness in his chest, knowing there would be no IV therapy, no further antibiotics, and probably no reversal of the colostomy when he’d healed.

After thanking the nurse for her efforts, John turned, ready to appeal the transfer to the CO, at least find out details about where the boy had gone, and why. He was only a few steps outside the CO's door when he saw the sergeant a short distance away, across the path, watching John.

He was beyond pleased. He was gloating.

Resisting the urge to bring his fists - or worse - into play, John continued into the office, where the CO was seated. Neither spoke at first. The expressions - John aggravated, the CO sadly resigned - made some of it unnecessary.

A paper cup of coffee was placed in his hand. The bitter liquid, John thought, was somewhat appropriate in the also bitter circumstance.

“File the report.”

“I don’t advise it. You do not realise what you may be setting in motion.”

 _"File it."_ John's words were sure, confident, steady.

"Captain, I strongly suggest you reconsider." The man ran his fingers through close-cropped hair, clearly feeling a level of distress. "Once it leaves my hands, there is almost nothing I can do to help you if ..." He left the rest of the sentence implied.

"You didn't see, sir..." John let his voice stop, setting the emotion aside. "If that were your son, would you feel the same?"

"There are more civilised ways to address this."

John lost the battle of holding his tongue, but he kept his voice quiet. "Civilised? _Civilised?_ What was civilised about what that soldier did to that young child?"

"I know. Let me take care of it."

"With all due respect, sir, rape and a high-level cover up is not what this country needs from the people who are here to help them. I don't care that the perp is some nephew of some government official."

"All right." Sigh. John could tell that he didn't agree, but wouldn't fight him any longer.

The report was filed.

++

A few days later, word came down through the ranks of the unit that there were some reassignments pending, not an unusual occurrence, and one that John paid little attention to, given that it didn't usually affect the senior surgical staff. Some squadrons were being formed for some temporary, intermittent search and rescue missions, some of a medical nature, that some folks were being rotated back to England; most, so the rumour went, were staying put.

The list was posted that Friday. The sergeant - staying on base. Captain John H. Watson, MD - reassigned for one of the teams to be deployed and mobilised into enemy territory.

++

A lot of activity surrounded the restructuring of the unit, the compound abuzz with activity as John, along with his new team members boarded their transport. Goodbyes and last minute details flew, and John signed off on his patients, packed a few meager and only mandatory belongings, his mind heavy with disappointment and what smacked of a personal vendetta, of betrayal and failure. The life may have been saved, he knew, but the final disposition was unknown, his ultimate quality of life compromised. Unsurprisingly, as the vehicles were loaded up, the sergeant was there again in the periphery, amidst the cluster of people. When John's gaze found him, the sergeant smirked, winked, and mouthed the words “Good luck.” The victorious grin on his face was particularly malicious.

The first few weeks were especially difficult with his new role, new team. They laboured, succeeded, failed, and kept moving. Rescues happened more often than deaths, but John felt each life lost or each body recovered as another personal failure. The team saw to triage under extreme circumstance and rendered basic first aid until the fighting made it too unsafe. The team grew proficient at anticipating needs, at radioing for evacuation at precisely the right moment. Time passed, each day that felt much longer, hardships, miserable conditions, bone-weary fatigue, the toll of their tasks, and lousy food. They'd slept on the hard ground until John almost couldn't remember an actual mattress, let alone the cot he'd had in the barracks back on base.

One evening, their team was given a search-and-rescue, mobilised to find an injured British soldier, who'd been presumed abandoned outside the city in the low foothills. It was on that mission that the rescue failed spectacularly when a sniper had taken aim at the team members. The end of the mission stood with a death count of two, including the soldier they'd been searching for, and severe injuries reported of three of the squad.

John was medevac'd to a field hospital with a gunshot wound to the shoulder, multiple rib fractures, and a pneumothorax.

++

After Harry had fussed at him for sleeping on the floor, John sighed and tried to spend the next night on the bed. The dream overtook him, a sensation of drowning under piles of fabric being flattened over his head, into material through which he couldn't breathe. Awakening with a shout, heart pounding, skin diaphoretic, he sat up, panicked.  Somehow he managed to assure Harry that he was fine when she showed up wide-eyed at his door. Her feet padded back down the hall. And John slid his body quietly back to the floor, taking pillow and blanket with him.

++

The company clerk stood at John's bedside, proffered laptop in hand. He'd just been moved out of the acute area that morning after his chest tube had been removed, was now in a general ward. There had been a little concern for a minor wound infection, but thankfully, that had resolved with good wound care and those several days of IV antibiotics.

"Yes, please," John said, reaching out for it with a shaking hand. Soldiers in the post-op ward had brief access to unit technology from there, and John was hoping for a response from his sister Harry regarding a place to stay once they'd shipped him home so he could continue to rest and recover. Just until he could find something else to do, once he was able.

"Need help getting set up?" the clerk asked as John couldn't stop the wince as his shoulder throbbed with the requisite movements.

"No, thanks."

None the less, the clerk did reach out to steady the computer, tucked a pillow under John's injured arm. "I have something else for you, too," he said with less animation, holding out what John recognised immediately as medical discharge papers.

There was a dry lump in John's throat, a twinge of nausea, a stab of regret. The military had been the focus of most of John's life, from early on. Education, keeping physically fit, applying to med school, enlisting, basic training, deployment. He'd wanted to be a career army surgeon, to retire with the rank of Lieutenant Colonel after twenty years' service. Apparently two doctors had signed off on him, that he would no longer be able to perform his duties, and was being let go.

Blink. It was over.

"Thank you," John whispered even as he wished he didn't have to reach out and accept them. _Now what?_

A few days later, wound freshly bandaged, pain meds on board, he was helped into a vehicle for transport to the airport for his last military flight - home to his sister's flat outside London. At his feet was his trunk, filled with his clothes, boots, a book, personal gear, his letter of discharge, Harry's picture frame, the wall photo and plaque. And his invisible, broken dreams.

++

Mycroft had read John's file previously, including of course the restricted access bits, the confidential, sealed misconduct report John had submitted. There were copies of the orders that had violated protocol and the hierarchy that should have prevailed when John was assigned to the mobile mission. He could clean up John's record, reinstate him to active non-combat status, and even issue post-discharge the promotion, letters of commendation, or military awards he would likely have been entitled to had he stayed in active duty.

There were a few pieces to add to the file he was keeping on the doctor, however, and he read them again before inserting them. First, the dishonourable discharge papers of the sergeant who had done the unthinkable and who, in Mycroft's opinion, deserved far worse than a discharge. Far worse. The former sergeant had thankfully been unable, despite his relative's influence, to prevent Mycroft from issuing that order and seeing it carried out to fruition.

Next, the piece they were still working on discovering. Mycroft hated not knowing. He added the grainy MI surveillance photo and brief biographical data form on the young boy that John had operated on, whose status and whereabouts were yet unknown. He had an operative asking around, showing the photo, trying to locate him. It was, Mycroft had been told, probably too late. Given the ensuing unrest among the locals in that area and the poor access to medical care, and the length of time that had already passed, the most likely scenario was that the boy had either died or been abandoned in disgrace by family.

Tucking the file into his locking desk drawer, he leaned back in his chair, his gaze falling to the family portrait from when he and Sherlock were in their teens. His own smile more formal, Sherlock's lopsided and lively, his hand on the head of the family dog who most certainly was not smiling despite what Sherlock had insisted. Including the pet had been his parents concession to getting Sherlock to agree to appear in the portrait. Unbidden, he smiled to himself at the memory of how quickly Sherlock had disappeared on the heels of the photographer.

He checked the time and consulted the information he'd been given by one of his PAs. Perfect. John would be in his office. Time to make first contact. John Watson had another life to save.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the blatant errors surrounding military protocol and events that are certainly _fictional_. As I've said in other pieces, please just squint and forgive me for my ignorance. There is deliberate jumping between John's earlier days and the events surrounding his injury.
> 
> I have a renewed commitment to getting these two broken men to a place where they are comfortable, safe, and at peace with where their complicated journeys have been to this point. I may have to add an extra epilogue to make up for all this.
> 
> There were a few more bits of history about John that I wanted to include, but given that this was supposed to be a short chapter, I'm resisting the urge to add more details. I'm hitting post rather quickly before I change my mind, and I'm definitely adding a Happy Ending tag. Because I feel like I owe them and anyone reading along. Next chapter will be our favourite pair back on Baker Street. I'm done hopping timelines for a while and ready to watch John deal with Sherlock's obstinance as he starts to recover.
> 
> If I have missed something, please let me know gently.


	6. Enteral Sustenance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last we left them was in the flat on Baker Street, where John has been hired and brought in as an independent medical practitioner, and things are not all that good. A weak and tired Sherlock had an unpleasant nightmare, complained of a headache, intentionally - defiantly - spilled his tea, and John is also exhausted. Despite Sherlock's being in serious need of nutrition, he is refusing to eat. 
> 
> No worries, John has a plan. But it's kind of doubtful that Sherlock's going to like it.

"Now," Sherlock had said, "about my headache."

John didn't answer immediately, set his own tea down, folded his reading material, retrieved a towel to sop up the mess Sherlock had made, offhandedly. Giving Sherlock more attention than necessary for that display would, John knew, be counter-productive. Without much of a show of any emotion, John reached for his stethoscope, prepared for another round of vital signs. "We can start here, with this. I may have some extra meds for you, depending, for some of the shaking, the heart racing, withdrawal symptoms, and we can talk if you want."

"Piss off."

John smiled pleasantly, not giving Sherlock's defiance much of a foothold. "Do you know what day it is?"

"Oh dear lord, I'm oriented. No hallucinations. Why must you insist on being boring, an idiot, like all the rest?"

"I'm not inclined to force you to do anything."

"Then you'd best just leave right now. We're done here." Sherlock was as snippy as John'd heard him.

"Is that what this is, then? You drive people away. Would you prefer it if you were forced? Because that's not usually my style." 

"I've had things forced on me. Including your irritating presence."

"I can well imagine you've been threatened, restrained, even medicated against your will. Meds are not my first line treatment for you, now that you're at this stage." John had certainly needed to give him lorazepam as he'd been dangerously withdrawing a few days previous, the shaking tremors rendering him unable to much else and a sign of dangerous brain overactivity, but that acutely stage was mostly over. "Other things first. Which means I'm calling someone to come sit with you while I take care of a few things."

"Call my brother."

"I work with an aide, nice woman, Molly. She's a med student, nearly a junior doctor." John had emailed her a brief report, what he anticipated would be a quick outing then a nap where he wasn't subconsciously listening and waiting for Sherlock to awaken, need something, require intervention. That kind of vigilance did not allow for very deep or restorative sleep most of the time.

_"I want my brother."_

"You are not calling the shots here. My assistant will be here shortly, I have some errands to run, and I'd like a bloody shower without worrying you're getting into trouble." He didn't say specifically that he was worried Sherlock would be using if unattended but it was implied and they both knew it. John was fairly certain, even though Mycroft had said he'd searched the flat for illegal substances, Sherlock probably had something stashed around the flat somewhere. Plus, John wanted - needed - a nap, he didn't add aloud. Although, he thought, the shower would also be almost as welcomed. The few quick showers he'd taken, timed when Sherlock seemed dead asleep, had been all efficiency, door open, and not a second longer than necessary. Nap first, shower second...  _ahhhhh_.

"Right, you don't trust me."

"Not even a little." John agreed as he reached out, stretched, began to wrap the blood pressure cuff around Sherlock's upper arm. He felt the need to soften his statement. "Not yet anyway, but I will." The velcro closure was loud in the room moments later as he removed it. "100/50, not bad." There was a pause as his fingers held Sherlock's wrist, eyes glued to his watch, counting. "Heart rate's too high, just under 100. How is your headache?"

"What answer gets me something strong?"

"None of them, probably." Sherlock made a face, turned in the bed so his back was to John, like the petulant toddler John kept getting glimpses of. John was glad his back was turned so that Sherlock couldn't see the smile on John's face, actually pleased at the spark of sassiness. "Paracetamol. And a full glass of water should help a bit anyway. I'm picking up lunch while I'm out, what do you like?"

"Caviar and Dom Perrignon." The brief sidelong gaze Sherlock leveled at John from back over his shoulder was absolutely daring him to engage. " _Russian_  caviar."

"Right, got it, sweet iced tea and toasted cheese. Maybe some fruit." Most of that was already in the kitchen anyway.

From John's angle, he could see Sherlock's carotid artery, rapid, bounding. Still dehydrated. The infrequent water intake was not enough, and John watched Sherlock's dry lips and hard swallow.

"You drinking anything?"

"No."

"I can pick up something you would enjoy drinking?"

"I told you, Dom--"

"Something non-alcoholic. And preferably non-caffeinated."

"You offered me tea, caffeinated."

"Yes, I remember, the carpet appreciated it." John smiled at him, thinking that when Sherlock was feeling better he would still probably be a handful although for different reasons. "No?" and when Sherlock shook his head, John continued, "Clarifying that means also not swallowing the paracetamol?"

"Obviously."

"You want it by another route of administration?" John tipped his head at the box of supplies that were at the foot of his cot, knowing Sherlock could see him in his peripheral vision. "There are suppositories in here with the supplies, and I've a glove..."

"God no."

"I didn't think so. Fine, keep the headache, cancel the tea and cheese, IV fluids for you. And a surprise for you after I've eaten lunch, a bit later." Deftly, he primed a new IV set, assured the site was still patent with a flush, connected it, and finished cleaning up the floor from Sherlock's earlier tantrum of tea spillage. "You'll feel better, Sherlock. I know this is pretty miserable. This'll help, headache's common."

Only a few minutes of watching the IV infuse, and John's mobile pinged with an incoming text from Molly to let him know she'd just arrived. He met her at the door, showed her around briefly, and introduced her to Sherlock. John reminded Sherlock that he'd be back soon, and he patted his arm on the way out. Sherlock was definitely awake, John could tell, but very deliberately ignoring him. "Text me if you have any issues, questions. Any concerns. Ta."

++

When he returned an hour or so later, a quick run to a medical supply store as well as an even quicker stop to grab lunch, he was tired, ready to close his eyes. Sherlock seemed to be sleeping when John checked in on both of them, found things calm enough, got a reserved thumbs up from Molly. He put a few things away in the kitchen, then returned to the bedroom, where he collapsed to sleep the sleep of the dead even as Molly kept a close eye on his patient. The skill of falling asleep near immediately had been useful while deployed, on call, exhausted - that he could close his eyes and fall asleep quickly in the midst of activity, noise, commotion. Body knackered, he rested, sleeping well for the first time since his arrival days before, knowing he was not going to be urgently summoned or awakened and need to be responsible for whatever was going on.

The sound of hushed arguing - fussing - and Molly's quiet responses awakened him a few hours later.

"I'm fine, and don't need your help."

"I'm not leaving you unattended. You're weak!" Molly protested, calmly.

"I'm not using the loo in front of you."

"I'll help you, be in arms reach in case your legs give out."

Sherlock was stubbornly insisting, and Molly tried to shush him when John stirred and rolled over, his sleep disturbed by their escalating conversation.

"Sherlock," John said, low, his voice gruff.

"Now you're in for it, you woke the warden." Sherlock's voice sounded weaker than previously.

"Let Molly cap your IV and help you. Stop being ridiculous."

"You do it."

"You're fine, she's a trained medical professional."

"You're awake, you can --"

"No. Sherlock, be reasonable. It's okay. You can do this." John's lethargy was difficult to fight his way through - must have been in a deep sleep cycle, he knew - and he spoke with his eyes mostly closed and body still quite relaxed from the cot. "Please?" 

In the silence, John was torn between asserting his need for Sherlock to comply with some not-unreasonable behaviours and expectations, and feeling compassion for him with the inclination to get up and help his patient. The exaggerated huff that came from the bed gave John the imagined vision of Sherlock as a feisty, curly-headed three year old yelling at a butler, stomping his feet, or sticking his tongue out at whomever crossed him or had the gall to deny him anything.

John was not engaging in this argument, hoping for Sherlock to comply and not be so terribly bloody difficult about it. "You can use the loo now with Molly's help, or wait a bit until I'm more awake and out of the shower, your call."

There was no answer but another huffing exhale, and John watched through tired, half-mast eyes as Sherlock allowed Molly to tend his IV then let Molly take his arm, supporting quite a bit of his weight, and lead him across the hall. Alone in the room, John let himself smile. _Making progress,_ it seemed.

++

It wasn't too much longer until John'd had a long, relaxing, ridiculously hot shower then rejoined the pair in Sherlock's bedroom, where Molly had long since reconnected the IV and was worrying at her fingernail as she watched him. He was supine, inclined on a couple of pillows, pale skin, eyes closed.

"He's got no reserve," she said. "Really tachycardic, laboured breathing after very minimal activity." John inspected the pulse oximeter readout, which was as Molly said, heart rate still elevated. His oxygen level was acceptable at the moment. "Lowest pulse ox with activity was 87%."

"I know. Today, hydration and nutrition. Tomorrow, maybe, he'll be better."

From the bed, Sherlock's voice was tired. "I'm not eating. Not hungry."

"I have ways to work around that, Sherlock. Remember the surprise I promised you? But first, for me, some lunch. I brought extra in case you decide otherwise." Sherlock's eyes were not sharp, not focused, bleary, and John knew that he had waited long enough. "Shall I fix you a plate?"

Sherlock didn't answer. Not even the comforting smell of the soup, sandwich, or sliced orange sections could get him to change his mind.

++

John had also made contact with Mycroft Holmes while he was out.

**I have an update, and a few questions, if you've time? John**

Ellipsis, message read. That quickly, his mobile rang.

"Thanks for ringing so fast." John thought perhaps he would start off with something unexpected. He got to the matter of more import. "Wanted to let you know I found the contract you'd already signed. I added my signature, can fax it to your office if needed."

"That shouldn't be necessary."

"Need to make you aware of something, too."

"Please go ahead," Mycroft said into the silence when John paused.

"The contract includes consent. He's refusing to eat, and I'm not playing the game with him. I'm not going to beg, and I'm done trying to sweet talk him into it. He may have a feeding tube next time you see him." John gave a very brief synopsis of what it would entail.

"He will certainly refuse, fight you."

"He hasn't the strength right now. And I won't force him, when it comes down to it. But perhaps ... well, that remains to be seen."

"Fine. Do not feel you have to seek my permission every time ..."

"Oh, trust me, I don't. It was a courtesy call, as you had requested to be kept up to date. Nutrition, however he can get it, is in his best interests."

"I hired you for your sound medical judgment. I trust that you will proceed wisely."

John changed tacks then, proceeding with the rest of the update, Sherlock's risk for refeeding syndrome, the possibility of a confirmation xray with mobile services, that he was sending another round of labwork in the morning, the concerns he had about his mental health. "I'm still waiting on those records you assured me were coming."

"I had them delivered." A discharge summary had been in the file from Sherlock's emergency appendectomy at age 17, and a bout with back strain in his twenties.

"Again, incomplete. Shockingly, there's no mention of any mental health issues or substance abuse."

"I'll see what I can locate."

He sighed, Mycroft's reluctance speaking volumes as to what John sort of already had an inkling about. "All right, thanks for your time, Mr. Holmes." John cleared his throat. "Oh, last thing, I want a list of some of his favourite things, from childhood, university or more recent, any of it. Pleasant associations for him: books, food, music, movies, activities, games."

The silence was deafening. _Activities and games?_ Mycroft could have snorted, settled for rolling his eyes.

"You do know your brother well enough to at least give me something?"

The voice on the other end of the line, to John, sounded timid, younger. "I shall try."

John disconnected, leaning on the wall outside of the chemists, wondering if Mycroft was scrambling trying to come up with some sort of list. He hoped, whatever he found, that it would be helpful. Even more, he hoped it had given Mycroft something to think about.

++

"Up you get." John hooked the IV from the bracket on which the bag was hanging.

"I don't need to."

"Did I say it was for you to use the toilet?" Sherlock glanced up, and John could see that his eyes were even tired, listless.

"I can take a nap in the bath?"

"Not for a bath either. Maybe later, if you want, and are still up for it, sure."

Sherlock seemed to consider that, finally replied, "Go away."

John sighed, pulled at Sherlock until he was sitting upright, then without allowing much resistance or the chance to say no, he boosted him to his feet. Together, they moved across the hall, listing to one side awkwardly, given that John was supporting the weight of them both.

He'd already placed a barstool opposite the sink, and let Sherlock drift down until he was seated. On the vanity by the taps were a razor, towel, shaving cream, and Sherlock's aftershave set out nicely. "Really?" he asked, as if already bored.

"Yes, a shave. You're a mess."

"Your surprises suck," he whispered.

"Oh, this isn't it, actually. But you're welcome." John turned the water on, allowing it to warm, meanwhile pushed gently at Sherlock's head until he was able to lean it back, so it rested against the wall.

The bathroom light was bright and clear, the water warm, a bit of steam making the room cozy. He draped a towel over Sherlock's pyjamas. John widened his stance to put himself on a safer, easier level to shave him, began to speak. "One of my favourite things to do, for some reason. Always enjoyed shaving, myself, someone else, didn't matter. Definitely with a straight razor, strop, real shaving cream - you know, the real deal. Here's the hot towel," he said, easing the cloth against Sherlock's bearded jaw. "Was pleased to see you prefer a real razor, actually."

++

At the evac hospital, the last stop before John would be sent to the transfer center, Tim, one of the nurses, helped prop him up in bed, his only request of him that day other than pain medication was to perhaps, if he had time, to help John shave. When the shift had nearly been over, John figured it wasn't going to happen, tried to reassure himself that it was all right. So when Tim had come back with razor, shave cream and a smile, John had been both thrilled and relieved. It was just one of those things for him, something that made him feel lousy when he couldn't get to it and much better, more like himself, when he was clean shaven.

The water wasn't hot exactly, but Tim set about, efficiently wetting, lathering, then shaving with a rather cheap, disposable razor. The one time John'd forgotten about his injury, tried to reach up his left hand to help, caused a grimace and almost outright groan as the pain radiated through his chest, arm. "Ow, shit," he breathed, and Tim stopped mid-glide to make sure John was all right.

"Whoa, watch that." Tim had lightly chided. "Don't aggravate things."

"Forgot." John took a few deliberate deep breaths, and the spasm eased. "Damned inconvenient, dominant arm."

"For more things than just shaving. Surgeon, I heard, yeah?"

"I was," John said, trying to be way more casual than he was feeling about it. "I'm luckier than many," John said, wondering for whose benefit that statement was.

"Very true, of course. Still hurts." Both of them could sense a subject change was in order, and Tim rinsed out the razor, then demonstrated the tightening of the upper lip and John complied. "Never grew a beard, eh?"

"Never liked it, really."

"Nah, me neither." Tim's dark eyes studied what he was doing, flicking down to John's jaw. "At least yours comes in nice, though."

There was a moment, then, when Tim's eyes met John's, simply friendly. Neither looked away. The contact was there, a connection, mostly casual and pleasant, but interested, maybe, feeling each other out. Just a very slight amount flirtatious but very proper, too. John let his eyes linger, testing the waters. It had been a long time since anyone had really flirted with him. "Thanks, I ... uh," John hesitated as Tim's hand hovered, razor still over his lip. "Don't get distracted now."

With a sparkling eye, he smiled broadly with a small laugh, then set about his task again. "Of course not, I would never. All good here." The rest of the shave was more quiet, efficient, still oddly charged, companionable. The water was even more cool when Tim was done, took a step back. "Feel better?"

"Oh yes," John said is a drawn out growl of appreciation, his right hand this time coming up to feel his now dry and clean shaven face. "I can't tell you how good..." he let the sentence trail off. "Thank you very much."

"Turned out all right, but you started off pretty good too," Tim said then began quickly rolling up the linens, disposing of the razor, straightening up, then teased, "Must be your lucky day: first time this week someone didn't need a blood transfusion or sutures when I was done." Their shared chuckle was short lived, as there was a phone ringing down the hall, and the sounds of a busy medical unit. "Gotta run. Best of everything to you, doc."

++

Sherlock sat quite still, watching for a bit as John chatted, talked, about everything and nothing, explaining unnecessarily what he was doing as he softened, applied shaving cream, began to work, stopping every so often to rinse, reapply, or stretch.

"Almost done," he said finally, knowing Sherlock was still awake though his eyes had drifted closed a little bit ago. "You enjoyed this, I'm glad," he said low, meaning it and understanding. That moment, with John's thumb over Sherlock's cheekbone, razor poised, their faces very close, Sherlock opened his eyes.

Their gazes met, locked, connected. For a moment, Sherlock's eyes were more bright as they stared. Remotely, the things John had seen before in Sherlock's face - curls, long eyelashes, bowed upper lip, full lower one, regal nose - seemed to be much more than the sum of their parts. It was a bloody, nice, handsome, attractive face. Frozen mid-movement, John's hand on Sherlock's face, their thighs touching, resting against each other as Sherlock sat and John worked in close proximity, there were a few lingering moments of awareness, of virility, of their nearness.

It was intimate, shaving someone, crossing the usual personal boundaries, the task requiring touching...

John gave himself an invisible shake, a mental jolt. Blinking a couple of times, he broke their eye contact, smiling a little. "Keep holding still, then, like I said, nearly there." His voice sounded a little tight to his own ears. A minute or two later, the grating sound of blade on razor stubble, running water, and he rinsed Sherlock's jaw one final time, drained the sink, washed off the blade. "That should feel much better, more human I suppose," he quipped, keeping it light. "You want to do your own aftershave?" A faint, shake of the head. "All right, then. This is nice product, by the way," he said, shaking out a little, applying it. "Now," John said, standing tall again. "Anything else while we're in here?"

"No." Sherlock brought a hand up, his fingertips brushing over his now smooth chin, and though he was tired, John could still tell he was pleased, that it did feel better. "Thanks," he said as his arm fell back to his side.

"You're welcome," he said, always impressed when patients managed to express polite gratitude especially when they were feeling lousy. "We could go to the kitchen, find you something to eat."

"No." Unsurprised, John gave a slight tug on his arm, but Sherlock was not especially motivated to stand. "Sleep," he said, protesting weakly.

"Is your intention to starve yourself to death?"

"The IV is fine."

"Actually no it isn't, it's not nutrition, no protein." John flicked off the light, took Sherlock under the arms with one of his, began to help him back across the hall. "So, back into bed with you. You and I need to come to a decision."

++

"My errand from earlier, picking up something for your care, was hoping not to need it." Sherlock's body was still, relaxed, but his eyes were open and he was staring at John, paying attention and very curious. "A feeding tube."

There was a sharp burst of an exclamation, something akin to a snort of laughter. Sherlock thought John was kidding, but quickly realised his error and his features darkened. "No."

"Then you can just bloody well eat." John watched Sherlock's jaw clench in stubborn refusal. "Fine, no big deal, really. Nutrition until you're better." Sherlock seemed to be watching John as if he'd just told a huge lie, was waiting for the reneging, the punchline, the reconsideration. "Non-negotiable, hydration and nutrition, Sherlock. One way or the other."

“No hospital.” Even in Sherlock's weakened state, the fear he was emitting was almost palpable, a circling and escalating energy that John could tell would end up doing more harm, make Sherlock entirely too anxious, if Sherlock couldn't, or they both couldn't - very quickly - rein it in.

"Oh," John said, understanding - or so he thought. "Not permanent, that goes into the abdomen. Temporary, flexible, very small." Sherlock still looked especially doubtful. "Through the nose."

"No hospital," he stressed again, looking at John as if he expected to be captured and hauled off. The rapid heart rate John had been so aware of earlier was now markedly elevated, and John didn't need to look at the monitor to know that for a fact.

"Of course not, I can do it here." The wide-eyed not-completely thinking clearly expression was back, Sherlock staring hard at John. "No problem." He sat back against the bed, perched on the edge. "Take a deep breath, Sherlock. You're all right." The tremors began again, his arms shaking without conscious effort, the tremors of his thigh muscles John could feel vibrating the mattress. "I'm not lying. We can do this right here at home."

"Pass."

"The better option would be for you to eat, anyway. What is going on here, that you won't?" John tried to keep his voice calm. "Are you not eating because you miss the drugs and are hoping I'll give in, supply you with something?" There was a slight shake of the head. "Are you hoping that by not eating, you're going to die?"

"God no. Just not hungry."

"Nauseous?" John asked, and Sherlock gave a slight shake of his head, no. "Usually eating something small will help, you realise. Last time I'll ask: dinner?"

"No."

“Your refusal to eat is, I think, simply you being stubborn. It’s your childish way of throwing a temper tantrum.” He retrieved a can of vanilla protein-enriched shake from the table from his earlier purchases. "I'd offer this to you open but I've seen you in action. Will you try to drink this?"

"No. God, leave me alone. Tired."

“Fine. That's your decision, then.” He explained what he was doing as he assembled supplies, noting that if he wasn’t one-hundred percent sure the tube was in, there would be a mobile xray confirmation required before he would risk using it. While John'd never had an issue, he would not subject Sherlock to anything risky - and instilling tube feeding into a lung would have disastrous consequences. "I said earlier I wouldn't force you to do anything, and I still mean that." He waited until Sherlock looked at him. "I think it's wise, will help you start to regain your strength. Do I have your permission to proceed?"

A minute ticked by, maybe a little bit longer before Sherlock gave a small nod, and then looked away. John couldn't tell if it was nerves or if he was plotting something. Mostly he thought his patient lacked the energy to plot much at all.

With Sherlock in the bed, reclining back against several pillows, John laid everything out, and put on gloves. “You will follow my directions to the letter, and this will go fine. Perhaps once you’re stronger, you’ll feel more like eating and have a bit more of an appetite.” He flushed the tube, coated the tip in surgilube, and placed his hand securely on Sherlock’s forehead. He inserted the thin, flexible, weighted tip into Sherlock's left nare. “Bit of pressure here," John advised, advancing the thin tube, "and then in the back of your throat, just like that. When you feel it, swallow.” John changed his hand position so that he was supporting the back of Sherlock's head, ready to help him angle forward as they reached the next step of the procedure.

Sherlock’s eyes were wide and his frown grew more furrowed when he could feel the tube encroach on his nasopharynx, nearing his gag reflex. John backed off just a bit, waiting for him to breathe easily, relax again. “Means were nearly there, now when I advance it, you’re going to give a swallow, maybe a second one, and then it’ll be down. All right?” He rolled his eyes as John slid the tube in a little farther, but then swallowed and retched at the same time, and John seized the moment, the opening that would most likely indicate a straight passage into the esophagus, and flexed his neck forward, slid the small bore feeding tube down. It slid easily, passed smoothly, and John flicked his eyes to Sherlock's - they were open, watery, his dilated pupils intently watching him. “You're doing fine. Great, one more swallow, and we’re there. Ready, _swallow_.” He advanced further in, having reached the centimeter marking he'd pre-measured. "Done, good job."

He swallowed again, turning his head slightly to each side, feeling the foreign tube, his brow furrowed. 

"Breathing okay?" Unhurried, John watched him carefully, not alarmed, glanced at the monitor still displaying numbers from the sensor on Sherlock's toe. Stable, in all readings.

"Yes, John."

He removed the stylet, connected the cath tip syringe, gave a small air bolus as he listened with his stethoscope over Sherlock’s epigastric area. “Perfect, nice air bolus sound, good and loud.” Removing the stethoscope, he pulled back from the tube and got back a small amount of air plus pale, thin green bilious stomach contents. “Great, definitely stomach.” He dipped the end of the feeding tube into the cup of water he'd brought in prior to beginning, submerging it. Sherlock continued to breathe, chest rising, air exchanging, as John waited. No bubbles.

"Breathe in," he cued, then slid his fingers to Sherlock's lips, closing them, then partially occluded both nares with another finger, "and out, gently." There were still no bubbles. "Definitely not lung." He capped the tube, taped it securely to Sherlock’s nose, tucked the end under Sherlock’s collar while he binned the rubbish, cleaned the area.

"You did very well." John took in a lot, seeing how Sherlock was acting, gauging his reaction by his expression, trying to imagine how overwhelming his current status must be. “Feeling all right?” 

He didn’t answer, but his look seemed to imply that no, of course it doesn’t feel all right.

Grabbing the syringe again, he instilled a small amount of water, and when there was no coughing, he instilled half a can of the complete nutrition he’d purchased. “So that’s all there is to it, until you’re agreeable to eat like a normal person.” Sherlock frowned at John’s words, and he noticed, continued, “Yes, that’s right, I did just insult you a little bit, sorry, because you’re perfectly capable of eating, you’re just refusing.” He opened his laptop then, cued up some classical orchestra music, set the volume to low, and pulled the sheet up over Sherlock. "Rest now. You did quite well, thanks."

Half an hour later, Sherlock was still mostly awake, and since there’d been no nausea or vomiting, John bolused with the rest of the can, flushed and clamped the tube. He rinsed the supplies, put them away.

Sherlock closed his eyes while John made light conversation, talking more about random stories from the news and from the more sedate anecdotes from Afghanistan. Safe ones. After a bit, it seemed that Sherlock had fallen more deeply asleep, and John wondered perhaps if it was because he was no longer hungry.

A few hours later, he could sense Sherlock was ready to stir, eventually looked up from his book to find that Sherlock was very definitely awake. His hand rested over his own belly, John could see, probably sensing that his gut was waking up, being stimulated, the production of digestive enzymes and stomach acid, probably a very different sensation from what he'd grown accustomed to. "Full?"

Sherlock gave a half-hearted shrug. "A bit," he finally agreed.

John checked residual of the feeding tube by aspirating contents, found it negligible, and partly to himself, partly to Sherlock, said, “Perfect. Maybe a couple of days of good nutrition will make a difference for you.” John tucked the end back to loop over Sherlock's ear, out of the way, the end resting inside the collar of his tee shirt. "More energy to stay active, generates more of an appetite. It's a good cycle, better than how it's been anyway."

"It's bothersome." John worked hard not to react immediately to Sherlock's very obvious statement. "The tube," he fussed again at John when John's response was not as forthcoming as Sherlock apparently wanted.

"Of course it is, what did you expect?"

Sherlock scowled.

John couldn't stop the smile at his expression. "Let me remind you, this was your decision."

"Was not."

"Our decision. We made this together."

"You gave me an ultimatum."

"Semantics. Every choice you make has consequences." They met eyes then, their gaze steady, serious. John was reminded of his own choices - med school, enlisting, filling out that incident report that changed everything, his new choice of vocation. Sherlock's mind was full of so many choices he couldn't even settle on one - university, the way he chose to alienate people, drugs, the assignment gone badly, Vincent.

Choices. He vaguely was aware that he could have fought John off, resisted the feeding tube, at least put up enough token resistance. That he did not was puzzling. He'd even nodded in agreement before John had begun. He shut his eyes again, still wide awake but seeking some sort of refuge from those bright physician eyes that saw too much, turned his face away.

A hand patted his shoulder again. "Before you crash here and fall asleep again, I asked Molly to bring over a few movies, thought we'd put one on later out in the sitting room. I'll set you up on the couch..."

"No."

"I'll turn up the volume then so you can at least listen to it."

"You're not going to stay in here with me?"

"You're not going to join me out there?"

John watched as Sherlock reacted with surprise to that statement, brows down, eyes open although briefly to look over at him. Did he really expect that John wouldn't push him, challenge him from time to time, even just given the few days John had been at this assignment. Quickly, Sherlock's animation faded, and he resumed the appearance that it didn't even matter, that he didn't care. Off-handedly, pretending he wasn't paying attention either, John opened his laptop, checked his email, found a short list from Mycroft, and perched on his cot as he read the requested information.

_Interesting indeed._

++

John cued Sherlock through a bedtime routine again, noting that he was still without energy, heart rate still quite high as he used the toilet, brushed his teeth (which John finally took pity on him and did some of the scrubbing), and offered him mouthwash (refused) and a beverage - water (also refused).

"I don't need that, do I?" Sherlock asked.

"What, water? Of course you do, and you can eat and drink even with the tube in." For someone who actually enjoyed eating, John would have used the term pleasure feeds, but he didn't think that would be productive with Sherlock. "And actually, you might be a little thirstier now than you were before."

John filled the glass, held it out. Sherlock looked both perplexed and irritated, took a small sip, then shook his head no. They were in the bathroom, the mirror in front of them, and their eyes met, their reflections framing both heads.

"The feeding tube probably isn't the look you want to keep forever, is it?" John angled an eyebrow, one hand on his hip, gestured at the tape on Sherlock's nose. "I mean, it's kind of distracting from ..." and here John paused, a little awkwardly, not sure what he wanted to complete the sentence with: the cheekbones, the hair, the eyes, smile, or the recent shave? "... the rest of what you got going on here."

"Not thirsty."

"Pain medicine for your headache?"

"Oxy?"

"Sherlock," John growled, although fondly.

"Codeine?"

"Of course not. _Paracetamol_."

"No."

"Fine, suit yourself, but I can crush it, give it down the tube, along with a folic acid and thiamine." Sherlock just stared, waiting for more of an explanation. "Helps the brain recover. Mitigates the withdrawal symptoms." John knew Wernicke's encephalopathy would be particularly late to occur now, but recent research still suggested that the deficiency should still be treated as soon as possible.

There was a protracted sigh, and Sherlock still looked quite tired. "I thought this was supposed to help." He leaned hard on John, feet dragging, body not cooperating.

"Instantly? Come on, you're brighter than that." John guided him back to the bed, deposited him on it. "It took a long time to get this malnourished, and we can't correct it too fast."

"Why not?"

"Dangerous. Refeeding syndrome can actually make you sicker. While I'm thinking about it, just so you know, we're sending off bloodwork tomorrow, phosphorus, haemoglobin, and a panel of everything else." Sherlock laid down, turned on his side. "Nope, head up. Here's another pillow."

"Ugh." His protest was followed by him not moving.

"Sit up, Sherlock, come on." And John wrapped both arms around him to lift him, tucked two more pillows behind him, let his thin body then relax, elevated safely to give meds, a bit of water, and another very small feeding. The calculations how much nutrition he needed had been easily completed based on Sherlock's body weight, his height, and caloric requirements. That would be enough for the first day, within the safe recommendations, that small amount. He pulverized the few pills, showing each label to Sherlock out of concern that he would worry John was slipping him something, diluted, instilled, then flushed them. "Keep sitting up, at least half an hour." Sherlock's brows furrowed again. "Prevents reflux."

"Stupid."

"Aspiration pneumonia is also stupid. And somewhat preventable." Once John had stashed the supplies again, he disappeared briefly across the hall, returned with one of Sherlock's expensive skin lotions. "Your hands are atrocious. Let's get them less dry, then, shall we?"

John perched next to Sherlock on the bed, took one of his hands and a nail file, made quick work of shortening and shaping his nail tips, then smoothing and rubbing lotion into them, his hands, over his wrists. After he'd done both, taking his time as he worked the lotion in, massaging knuckles and palms and the soft fleshing pad of his fingertips, he set the bottle aside and saw Sherlock watching him curiously. "Mycroft told me," he said quietly, almost sheepishly, by way of explanation. "Said your hands bother you when they're dry, not taken care of."

"What else?"

"What else what?"

"What else did he say?"

John stifled the smile, let only a small grin peek out. "That I should consider information an advantage and to wield it carefully."

++

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is standard procedure to do a confirmation placement xray after placing a small bore feeding tube. To make up for the creative license I allowed him to get away with skipping that, John assessed three different ways that the feeding tube was correctly placed and then watched carefully for tolerance and complications.
> 
> ++
> 
> Refeeding syndrome is a metabolic disturbance (phosphorous, magnesium, and potassium primarily) that can occur when someone is severely malnourished and then exposed to nutrition too quickly. It can be very dangerous, even fatal, with cardiac and neurological complications.


	7. One L, Two Esses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy!

Mycroft had texted, said he was possibly looking at a trip in the upcoming weeks, depending on how things were going, and wanted to swing by briefly to check in on Sherlock before making a final decision. John had responded that he was sleeping but he was welcome anyway. Sherlock was only sleeping short intervals, and John wanted to protect those if he could manage.

They had both paused outside Sherlock's bedroom, and in the dim light watched long enough for Sherlock to snuffle in his sleep and roll over. John had pinned the end of the feeding tube to the front of his tee shirt to prevent getting tangled in it or have it accidentally dislodge.

Once they'd moved, by tacit agreement, back to the sitting room, John found himself seated across from Sherlock's brother, who seemed, surprisingly, in no rush to leave.

"So, what stringed instrument does he play?"

"Why do you ask?" Mycroft's tone was guarded, as if the ability to play a musical instrument was highly classified and must be closely monitored. "What did he say?"

"Oh, he _said_ nothing."

"Then how ...?" Mycroft asked and stopped when he caught sight of John's face - pleased with himself.

John knew the corner of his mouth turned up and made no effort to hide it. He felt a bit of satisfaction escaping through his partial smile, hoping eventually Mycroft would stop playing games and give him a little credit where it was due. It had, after all, been Mycroft's suggestion to attend to Sherlock's hands. "Calluses and unique arm definition."

"You don't say." A more careful scrutiny and Mycroft snorted. "Seems doubtful, actually."

"Found a brick of rosin on one of the shelves. No instrument. Empty stand," John let his eyes flick over to the corner by one of the bookshelves.

"Most musicians don't get callouses unless they play daily or are professional. As with asymmetric muscle development."

"I did a bit of experimentation with some background music. He seems to conduct when there are strings playing." John nodded his head back at his laptop. "Your email said that he liked classical music. Orchestra seems to stimulate it more than symphony. Piano alone had no impact."

"So he said nothing."

"I watch him. And may have done a fair amount of guessing." John could feel himself relax a little, given that Mycroft seemed unruffled. "And then I found the rosin, so..."

"Indeed," Mycroft toyed with his cuticles, grateful again that John was overseeing care and keeping of his brother, that he seemed actively engaged. "Violin."

John had a momentary image of Sherlock under stage lights, curls bouncing, violin positively thrumming as he played it. He had a harder time picturing Sherlock following a conductor, and forced his train of thought back to present. "And you, what do you play?" There was a snort but no answer, and John made a tsk-tsk sound.

Mycroft aimed for (and hit) arrogant and condescending. "This has no bearing on what you were hired to do, Dr. Watson."

John was not cowed, pressed the issue simply for the contrariness of doing so. "Perhaps. But, oh come now, certainly with your upbringing you're not about to be upstaged by a younger sibling's talent." Silence. "Cello," he stated, a guess, glancing at how Mycroft sat forward in the chair, trying to picture him with a stringed instrument.

"No."

"Oboe."

"And risk a stroke? No." There was a degree of incredulousness about him at the apparently untenable thought.

"You realise that's a myth."

Rather than guess again, John simply remained silent, hoping to convey that he was no longer playing, and Mycroft answered quietly, "French horn."

"Of course. Posh." John could have meant the words as an insult, but his delivery was soft and he knew he was mostly amused at their dynamics. "Where is his violin now?"

"I suggest you ask him that question, Dr. Watson."

++

Earlier, John had flipped through the playlist to find Dvorak, set it to play softly. He'd helped Sherlock to the loo and back to bed, offered him water, which Sherlock had only taken a sip of. "Ready?"

"Does it matter?"

"Would you rather --?"

"No. But I thought you said this might help stimulate my appetite." John shook a can, opened the bag with tubing, poured it in then connected it to the end of the feeding tube. He'd done bolus feeds, thought infusing more slowly by gravity would be easier for them both. "It isn't working."

"Yes, but your weight's not going to go up after only a day, but it will. Your skin turger is better, urine's less concentrated."

Sherlock scowled, as if mentioning the word urine was taboo.

John shrugged, "It is what it is, an improvement. As I said, you didn't get this way overnight. It's going to take some time."

"The tube is annoying," he muttered, eyes downcast and very briefly cross-eyed at the tape on his nose, the sensation of the liquid infusing making the tube cooler, fuller. "The IV was better, except you took it out." John had removed the site as it wasn't being used, and he'd leave the line in again in the morning after using it for drawing blood. Given Sherlock's pallor, he thought perhaps his blood counts were still entirely too low. But just in case, one venipuncture was more tolerable than two.

"Not nutritious, IV fluids, this is much better for you. And remember what I said, _temporary_."

Sherlock's foot started moving just barely keeping the rhythm of the music, and he sighed as if tired, closed his eyes, shifting around on the bed.

"Uh uh," John chided. "Sit up, head up while this is infusing. Gravity and all, you know."

"If you make some allusion to Newton and the apple I will hurt you." Sherlock's foot kept time, barely, and John watched the specific point of the music for Sherlock when the strings built, swelled, crested. His breathing preceded the highest volume, and his right hand - what may have held a bow - made a few very small-scale sawing motions in time with the melody. "You know it didn't really fall on his head."

"Legend, of course. But there was an apple, and it's flight from a tree did apparently trigger his curiosity. Wasn't he sent home from his university after an outbreak of plague?" John agreed with him, tossed in the question about plague. He adjusted the closure on the roller clamp, watching Sherlock's hand still as it rested on the blanket, but noted that he was still breathing in sync with the music and continued to do so. "So sitting up is best during, maybe a half hour after, make sure your stomach is emptying."

"Is my labwork back yet?"

"I haven't heard the fax machine."

"Digestion is tiresome. And tedious."

"Explain," John said, seeking clarification.

"I'm exhausted." He sighed, relaxing boneless into the pillows, his body still and quiet. "And I'm not even doing anything."

"Sleep then. Recovery is not easy." John watched as the last of the feed ran in, and he disconnected, flushed, capped, and tended to the supplies. "Maybe later you'll have enough energy to walk to the couch. Or the kitchen."

Sherlock made a face at that. "Or throw you out of my flat."

"You'll need to work up to that, I think." Beethoven's seventh started, and John stayed to watch Sherlock not exactly sleep, but listen, his eyes closed. Once the song built to the peak of the second movement, mid melody, he hit pause on the laptop.

"Hey," Sherlock fussed from the bed and from behind his closed eyelids, which then snapped open, displeased, complaining though not giving reason. Not caring if Sherlock noticed, he smiled as he saw the man's toe in mid-direction and both hands as if bowing and fingering something. Sherlock found the abrupt cessation of movement, particularly at the middle of a musical phrase, especially frustrating.

"Sorry," John said, "thought I heard the fax machine." _Enter_ , the music resumed, and within a few measures, Sherlock's face relaxed.

So when he and Mycroft had connected later, John was ready.

++

The morning had started with John making arrangements to have bloodwork picked up again, as he'd been saying. This trip to the bathroom, John had had to support Sherlock more than in previous mornings, and just the few steps back to bed when they'd finished - loo, teeth, Sherlock had refused both shave and bath offers - as he was completely winded. John affixed the pulse oximeter again, found it marginally acceptable, but heart rate was still quite high, higher than it should have been and did not return to normal ranges in the time frame it should have, as expected. 

John pulled out supplies, and this time, Sherlock's veins did not fill as they had previously. He filled and tied a couple of gloves with very warm water, set them on Sherlock's inner elbows, another on the back of his hand, hoping the warmth and vasodilation would help bring up a suitable vein. The tourniquet was tight, and John pulled a chair to Sherlock's bedside, took his time searching.

Sherlock was studying him, and the process. John couldn't help the mischievous thought and put it to words. "Should I let you do this instead?"

"I think not." Sherlock rotated his arm so the dorsal vein was more accessible along the back of his arm. "How's that one? Any better?"

"Other than probably impossible to actually perform on yourself? It's fair." He shrugged, feeling the lack of bounce, went back to a lower cubital vein. "This one's good enough. Now, big pinch," he said finally. Cannulation was successful though not easy, and the tubes filled slowly, and once he released the tourniquet, Sherlock hissed out a breath.

John connected the IV cap, taped everything in place, asked, "I know that one was sore, sorry, but we got it. You all right?"

From his pillow, he didn't even raise his head, simply said, "Feel like I just ran a marathon."

John set up the mornings small feeding, set the lab package together (chemistry, haematology, blood bank specimens) and placed it just inside the door for the courier, made two cups of tea, and returned to sit with Sherlock. There were a few things he wanted to do, things to try with the man based on some intimations from the email, as well as some between the lines things Mycroft had given him, but at the moment, Sherlock wasn't up for any of it. Sherlock's tea grew cold.

++

The computer was still playing, something by Vivaldi that John did actually faintly recognise, when John heard the fax for real this time.

He scanned the printouts, giving a quick overall look before sitting down to study and compare them. Chemistries still skewed but no worse. Specifically his phosphorus and magnesium levels were good, so the feedings could be safely advanced.

The bigger issue, though, was that he was still very anaemic. Transfusion-worthy, even. He'd sent off type and screen: Blood type A positive, no antibodies detected. It would require some arrangements, then, in order to accomplish that. Hearing a noise from the bed, he returned to Sherlock's door to find him awake, eyes open, questioning, and having cleared his throat as a request for information.

"Well, the feedings are going all right, and definitely not making things worse."

"As if I care."

"You complain enough that I thought perhaps you did." John slid down his lower lip to evaluate the colour of his gums: pale. "Your blood count is still pretty low. It's why you're winded, weak."

"Not specifically helpful."

"Ever been told your haemoglobin or haematocrit are low?" There was a negative shake. "No abnormal blood values in the past?"

"Other than positive tox screens, you mean?"

"Touche."

"I have no idea," Sherlock did actually answer the question. John set aside the papers, set about offering Sherlock food and beverage, which was not even acknowledged this time. He added a concentrated protein supplement to what would loosely be termed breakfast, set it to gravity infuse again, flushed it when it was done. After a bit, Sherlock had fallen back to sleep, and John watched his pulse rate, oxygen level, and respiratory rate while digging out his mobile.

**Need to have another conversation with you. In person or via mobile is fine. JW**

**I will ring you shortly**

When the phone rang, John took it briskly out into the other room to minimise disturbances for his patient. John didn't hedge, waiting only long enough to say hello and thanks for the prompt call. "Has your brother ever been diagnosed with thalassaemia?"

A few seconds went by in silence. "Thalassaemia?" John could hear keyboard strokes in the back.

"One L, two esses." Of course, John realised, not suprised at all that he would look it up immediately, and supplied him with the spelling.

"Not to my knowledge." Mycroft spoke carefully, slowly.

"Anyone in your family?" He could hear keys again, decided to elaborate. "It's a type of blood disorder of the haemoblogin, causes anaemia and requires monitoring of iron levels. Transfusions in more severe cases. Most common in those of Asian descent, but Mediterranean and middle eastern as well. And sometimes just spontaneously."

Silence.

"I warned you about withholding records and history from me. No is a fine answer if that is the truth."

Silence.

"It's not a genetic defect, if that's what you're thinking. And I'm not positive he's got it, but it helps me try to find a cause for his anaemia." John could well imagine Mycroft holding the phone as he read from a computer screen in front of him, thinking nothing of making him wait. "Call me back when you're done being rude and ready to actually talk to me."

John was ready to disconnect the call, heard Mycroft intake of breath and then his voice. "I'm not aware of that diagnosis nor of a familial tendency, what I know of it anyway." John heard nothing on the other end of the line. "I will make a few inquiries with our parents."

"I'm going to have them run additional blood studies regardless, but it would help explain things." He heard movement in the bedroom. "And treatment is essentially the same, but again, knowledge is power."

"Indeed."

"He will most likely need a transfusion. Today if possible or tomorrow. I will be needing to make arrangements with the hospital, and it can be done in their infusion suite."

"No."

John gripped the mobile, wishing it was the neck of the man he was talking to. No seemed to be both of their favourite words. Ready to launch, John began, "He is activity intolerant. The lack of oxygen carrying blood cells puts him at risk ..." _for heart attack, bleeding, hypoxia, risk of infection,_ he didn't get to say.

"Dr. Watson. I'm not saying no to the transfusion, if that's what he needs. But I hired you to care for him in his flat. Do it, but do it there."

"Even if I agreed to that, which is not happening, the hospital as well as the NHS blood and transplant would unlikely allow it. They have protocols for administration, you realise..."

"I will make a few calls." There was a rustling of papers, a sigh. "I will be in touch no later than lunchtime today, at which point we can make plans."

++

John caught a short nap as Sherlock did, but awakened each time Sherlock moved, rolled over, or made even the slightest noise. The furrow on Sherlock's brow deepened with activity, and John watched with a sympathetic eye. He was obviously still very uncomfortable with any movement, and a deep sound of discomfort seemed to be growing more frequent, deep in his chest.

"Why am I having such pain now?"

"Electrolytes affect everything and as fluid shifts, solutes do too." John was prepared to elaborate except that Sherlock did truly seem terribly uncomfortable. "Want something for the aching?" Nod. Consulting the time, John crushed and reconstituted a mild pain reliever along with Sherlock's nutrition, set it to infuse by gravity again.

"I swear you're making this worse, whatever bullshit you're doing to me is awful."

"Which cliche would you like to hear right now?" John stood, adjusted the pillows again."We can do the 'no pain no gain' one. But probably closer to the truth is the 'pain is weakness leaving the body' one. Ultimately, you'll end up stronger, better nourished, more energy ..."

"Whatever you gave me isn't going to help. I need something much stronger, and ..."

"Sherlock ..."

"No, seriously let me make a phone call, someone can bring me ..." He continued a moment or two, speech a little pressured, the anxiety of his physical symptoms beginning to spiral. Once he'd stopped to catch his breath, he looked intently at John, the tremors aggravated as his upset grew. "Give me your mobile."

"Not a chance. I can help, soon as this ..." John glanced at the hanging bag, about half done, and left the sentence unfinished.

A growl interrupted him, and Sherlock reached up his hand to the feeding tube in frustration. "I should just pull this out."

"All right, if you're done with it." Though his muscles were tensed, ready for action, John stayed completely still. He did not touch the tubing, or move to stop him, but if Sherlock moved to actually pull the tube, he would shut it off to minimise the mess and prevent choking.

John's lack of immediate response must have surprised him. "Really? You would let me?" Long fingers explored the edges of the tape on his nose, and then along the tube, holding it in place.

"Of course I would. But just so you're aware, it would mean that you will need to eat all your meals, drink what I bring you, cooperate, follow instructions."

The hand relaxed, tube and tape remaining in place, and John worked hard not to exhale audibly in relief. Sherlock's eyes drifted closed, his mouth pursed in annoyance, a mild grimace as he shifted in the bed. In a quiet voice, he asked, "How long will it take before I start to feel more like myself?"

"Couple days more and you should see and feel improvement." While Sherlock seemed to be napping again, John considered that one of these times Sherlock would definitely pull the tube, having had enough of it. Thinking that it could be anytime, he made sure to give the days medications - thiamine, folic acid, proton pump inhibitor being the only ones at present - just in case it happened sooner rather than later.

++

The next time Sherlock was awake, John was ready for a bit of distraction as he waited for Mycroft to get back to him. He turned up the thermostat pre-emptively, helped Sherlock to the loo, started the water in the bathtub without specifically giving him a choice.

"Not again," Sherlock fussed, but his voice was quiet. John affixed a waterproof sleeve over Sherlock's IV site, secured the edge with tape.

"Just soak, if you want. And it's been a few days, actually. I know it takes a lot out of you, but the heat should help with the muscle soreness."

"You're a bloody nag."

John ignored that. "Bath bomb," he said, tossing one in that he'd found under the vanity. "And bubbles." He squirted a bit of whatever posh liquid he'd found as well. While he wanted to question their origin, he considered that both products did not seem especially newly purchased. Without speaking his concern out loud, Sherlock reached a tired hand up toward his hair. "No worries, I'll wash that, rinse with warm water from the tap; no soap." Without much fuss, John eased the shirt off him, let Sherlock slide off the pyjamas with a minimum of shyness this time, held his elbow steady as he stepped into the tub.

Despite the fact that John would have let Sherlock soak longer, relax a good duration of time, he was just so pale and weak that the bath wasn't a drawn out process at all. Hair washed quickly then towel dried, he soon helped Sherlock to his feet, wrapped him in a big bath sheet, and brought him back across the hall to the bed. "You turned the heat up?" he asked, eyes closed, leaning into the pillows John had propped against the headboard.

"You shivered last time, thought it would help," John swapped out the damp towels for dry, set a couple of pillows where he wanted.

"And I think it would help your sore muscles with some of this oil, a massage." From his own supplies, those that Mycroft had secured from his bedsit, he held it up. John always kept a small supply of it in his equipment. It was infrequent, but he had found that several of his patients ended up benefiting from massage.

One eye opened, partway, more cautious than curious. If Sherlock had more energy, John wondered, he might be putting up some resistance or even mildly alarmed.

"It'll help." John was already tucking fresh pyjama pants over Sherlock's feet as he talked, adding thick socks from the indexed sock drawer (which he chose not to comment on yet), pulled them up, tied at the waist. "Here," and he held out some water for him, "have a bit?" Sherlock took barely enough that the level didn't really go down in the glass. John set it aside, then stood waiting by the side of the bed. "Go on, on your stomach then."

The one opened eye closed, no words offered. John pulled up the duvet while nudging Sherlock and helped him to roll over, onto his stomach. There was only brief resistance, and then Sherlock did finally allow John to push him into position, adjusting pillows, making sure the feeding tube wasn't tugging. With Sherlock fairly close to the edge of the bed, John angled his hip, perching against the edge where he could still reach everything, right up against Sherlock's side. Warming his hands up then coating them with a light sandalwood massage oil, he began carefully and lightly stroking between Sherlock's shoulder blades, his fingertips pressing, easing, starting in slow, gentle circles.  The oil warmed under John's already warm hands, was thick and heated against Sherlock's skin. John made no tracing, no deliberate emphasis on the scars, simply treated the whole of his back. He'd barely grazed over his shoulder when he realised what was missing.

"Just give me a sec here," he said, letting his touch lighten as it occurred to him he'd forgotten to turn the music on low, which he did with his smallest knuckle out of deference to the oily state of his hands. "This piece all right?" John asked, peering at the now playing section of his screen. "Says it's selections from Tchaikovsky."

"Not my favourite but acceptable."

"I can change ..."

"It's fine," Sherlock murmured. "Everything is just so bloody sore."

"Your muscle cells are screaming, I know." John had restarted the rubbing, more lightly as Sherlock needed to reaccommodate. "Too hard?" He leaned up so that he could let his body weight do the bulk of the work as Sherlock shook his head no. The muscles along his bony spine were tight, initially he was tensing as John slowly let his hands run from waist, up along his back over kidney area to rib cage, then approaching scapula and into cervical spine muscles.

Within a few minutes, the song had changed, and Sherlock's breathing was more even and in synchrony with the movement of John's hands. The musculature of Sherlock's shoulders was the last to finally loosen, and John continued his ministrations for a few more minutes, then began to slow his movements, backing off gradually.

"Still awake?" he whispered.

"Hmmm."

"Stay relaxed while I," and as John was speaking, he tucked Sherlock's arm down, "help you get rolled over," and he left him lay fully on his side, "so your back doesn't get any more sore," and he tucked a pillow under Sherlock's leg to take the strain off his back, "and you can rest a bit." A few pillow adjustments later, the duvet pulled up, towels hung up, room straightened, and John surveyed the scene.

 _Okay, Mycroft,_ he thought, glancing at his mobile, checking the volume. _Your move, or I am taking matters into my own hands._

John was just searching for the infusion suite appointment scheduling number when his caller ID flashed:  Mycroft. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thalassaemia is fairly common, often more an incidental explanation for anaemia. Most of the time it requires no treatment, but there are various medications that help, and some patients are transfusion dependent. John will definitely run blood iron studies to be sure there is not iron overload, which can be very problematic for patients with thalassaemia.
> 
> ++
> 
> Muscle aching is very common in the presence of electrolyte imbalance and sometimes does, as with what Sherlock experienced, get worse as it begins to correct.
> 
> ++
> 
> Please let me know (kindly) if I missed anything or if a typo snuck by. Seems every time I re-read something, I find something and tweak it.


	8. Anaemia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Who are you, exactly?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recap: Mycroft has hired John, a medical coordinator specialising in live-in home care, to see Sherlock through recovery, detox, and healing. There is a feeding tube because Sherlock has no appetite and has been mostly refusing to eat. He continues to be activity intolerant due to low blood counts, and John wants to take him to the infusion center for a blood transfusion.
> 
> Mycroft has advised John that taking Sherlock back to a facility for a transfusion is definitely not on.

"It's Dr. Watson," John said, seeing the incoming call from Sherlock's brother. He answered his mobile, stepping out to the hallway so as not to disturb Sherlock's tenuous sleep more than necessary. An occasional twitch, a little bit of rapid eye movement, and he had been watching a while now as Sherlock's exhausted body would try to pass from one sleep stage to another.

"I'm on my way to your location now. I have a form that requires your signature."

"Form for what, exactly?" John asked.

"I'll explain it all in person." The call disconnected, and John's teeth clenched. He had a feeling it wasn't going to be the last time that day, either.

++

"Who are you, exactly." The bureaucratic red tape that had been not only rapidly initiated but looked to be already completed - save John's signature - would have taken a regular person weeks to have accomplished, if it would have even been a possibility.

John did not expect a verbal answer, but he did expect the smirk on Mycroft Holmes' face. He was feisty enough to appreciate that he stood correct on both counts.

Person of influence or no, John lowered the papers. "I'm not signing this."

Mycroft's expression changed not one iota. "I'll remind you that I hired you as a medical coordinator. To coordinate medical care in the home."

"And I'll remind you that did not include the involvement of unsafe medical practices. I told you right up front ..."

The grin on Mycroft's face was out of place, out of character, and disconcerting. "Oh, I recall what you said."

"I don't care if you have bloody permission or waivers or special dispensation from the church of England to do any of this. I don't have to agree to it." John glanced again at the paperwork. There was a letter of intent stating that a transfusion was medically necessary outside of the typical infusion suite setting and a certificate of medical need that, once John signed it, would be taken back to the hospital where NHS blood and transplant blood products would be issued. It had already been signed by the director of pathology, who oversaw the lab, the director of medical services, and a few other titles John hadn't actually heard of since med school. It certified that the transfusion would be attended by at least one provider of medical care.

John could almost imagine a duel in his mind, the gloves being dropped, swords drawn - or pistols, more likely - the two of them ready to pace off. Both of them were calm, voices low. "I assure you, Dr. Watson, if you press this matter, he will suffer despite your best intentions for his safety."

"He trusts me." John gestured at the lightly sleeping form. "Trusts me to keep him safe. Not to let him come to harm."

From their vantage point in the hallway, where John could keep an eye on his patient, Mycroft also looked steadily into the room. "He will never trust you again if you betray him thus."

"I am not betraying him, I am doing what is best, wisest, for his health."

"I can forbid this."

"I can resign on the spot, contract be damned." John had never broken one but there was grounds for it if he was being unable to hold to his ethical standards. He got the sense that Mycroft had chosen this hill to die on, decided to pursue more information. "So, what exactly is the problem with taking him to the hospital for a transfusion, bringing him back here? Perhaps you should enlighten me."

"You realise he's been hospitalised, institutionalised, previously."

"I'm fairly certain we've been over my multiple requests for complete records. Do you want me to complain about it again?"

"My PA is boxing them up, and they will be delivered shortly."

"Oh, did you hear that?" He brought a hand to his ear as if listening. "The sound of my hopes dashing to pieces on the floor. Pardon me for my disbelief."

Mycroft did not appear to be amused. "Suffice it to say that yes, he's had traumatic hospitalisations. Several, in fact. In the acute detox phases, he's out of it enough that he tolerates the first few days, maybe a week. After that, his mental health deteriorates quite alarmingly." John let his raised brow ask the question. "Sectioned yes." The pallor to Mycroft's face was a sad hue, and John could actually glimpse the emotion just under the surface giving clue to how bad it must've been. "I've always hated the word."

Thoughtfully John nodded, letting the information sink in. Changing the subject, he cautioned, "A blood transfusion is risky, out of the scope of practice to be performed away from back-up emergency medical equipment. I'm uncomfortable with doing this here." From inside the bedroom, there was the full-limbed myoclonic twitching of unfulfilling sleep, and Sherlock awoke with a start, a gasp, uncertainty. Handing the papers back to Mycroft as he entered the room, John pulled wide the draperies on his way to the bed to let more light in, to help orient. Speaking soothing words, he began trying to settle Sherlock back down and prevent him from being too rattled, too stressed. "You're safe. It's all right."

"God, hurts ...so sore. Nightmare. Thought I heard Mycroft." The words were clear to John, close as he was, but not his usual diction.

From the doorway, Mycroft spoke. "No nightmare, Sherlock. I'm here in the flesh."

"Nightmare, then. Told you."

John didn't want him wasting energy on further pointless, sibling fussing. "Your brother and I are just touching base on how things are progressing."

Sherlock laid his head back down on the pillow. "Not well." Against the white of the pillowcase, Sherlock's skin was nearly camouflaged against it but for the dark hair. John straightened the pillow, tucked in the duvet, made sure the feeding tube wasn't pulling or catching on anything.

"Love what you've done with your nose, brother-mine." 

"Piss off." While Sherlock's words may have been powerful, the delivery was weak enough that it was comparable to the high-pitched meow of a frail kitten.

"Should coordinate very nicely with that new shirt mummy just bought you."

John couldn't stop the smile at both Mycroft's words and Sherlock's weakened attempt to respond somehow. "Easy there, the both of you. I'll not have you harassing my patient," and Mycroft chuckled, victoriously, just a little. "Until I'm sure he's able to hold his own with you."

Mycroft spoke to John. "His lack of vigor is so disappointing," and then he turned to face Sherlock, "Well, sparring with you will apparently have to wait."

"Yes. Doctor's orders." John wished that Sherlock had the energy to return the jibes, and considered that eventually there would possibly be some entertaining encounters that John would, in all likelihood, have to referee. And as annoying as it was sure to be, John did actually look forward to it in small doses. He'd always preferred slightly feisty to this malaise Sherlock was trapped in currently.

Mycroft had approached, a hand reaching out awkwardly to touch Sherlock's arm. If nothing else, the gesture conveyed a bit of tenderness toward Sherlock, and was a reminder to John that, just perhaps, Mycroft did have good intentions toward his brother.

Sherlock's eyelids even appeared tired as John caught Mycroft's eye, pulled down Sherlock's lower lip to expose very pale gums, then did the same with his lower eyelid. "I don't suppose you're ready for something to eat or drink yet?" With very minimal movement, Sherlock shook his head, closed his eyes. "I'll be back in a moment, just going to walk your brother out."

They paused in the sitting room. "You realise he's doing rather well with you, Dr. Watson."

With a catch of his shoulders in a partial shrug. "He needs a blood transfusion. You saw his heart rate, how pale...?"

"Yes, of course, I believe your word." Pause for dramatic effect, Mycroft breathed, continued, "and I agree, which is why I have already taken such radical measures," and he indicated the papers he was still holding. "If you continue, press this matter, take him to hospital, he will absolutely regress, to the point that he may not work well with you again. I guarantee that." Mycroft waited, patiently, but John held his words. "Please proceed here at Baker Street. I have never begged in my life, but know that if I were to do so, this would most likely be the time. You - _he - we_ have worked to hard to get to this point for you to jeopardise absolutely everything now, John. Please."

John could feel the first signs of cracks in his armor, his arguments. "But all right, suppose - and I'm not saying I am in agreement yet - we proceed here," he began, but a cold sweat broke out across the back of John's neck. He hesitated, recalling the flinching at the loud noise, the scars, the plea from Sherlock that night when he'd cried out, 'don't hurt me'. He recalled the trust John had worked on, had built, when placing the feeding tube in the flat and not in an office or hospital. While they had a long process to go, Sherlock did, or was beginning to anyway, trust him. It was precarious as well as delicate. _Sectioned._ The word played about in John's mind, wondering.

Mycroft's sincerity was visible, palpable, and John's mind sensed, envisioned the desperation too. 

"I'm really not okay with this," John said again with a sighing huff, but he could feel the crumbling of his resolve, his stubbornness beginning to abate. "However, it may be the lesser of two evils. And I will be compiling quite a few conditions that you will either meet or find someone to do so, to ensure we've removed as many variables as possible. Before _any_ of this is going to happen."

Mycroft did look quite relieved, but appropriate serious as opposed to victorious, for which John was also glad. "Thank you." The quiet whisper was confirmation that he truly was grateful.

"I'm going on record that you've agreed to assume the risk. I'll minimise it best I can, but ..." Mycroft was nodding.

He reminded himself of the military environment, where blood was given in much less ideal situations, where there would occasionally have been the essentially unscreened emergency trauma situations, where dogtags were the only means of crossmatching and blood was given as a last ditch, lifesaving effort. In his mind, he reminded himself that he hadn’t lost patients there due to transfusion complications in even far less ideal situations. Here, he could take measures to guarantee as much safety as possible. If an emergency were truly to arise, he would be close enough to the hospital to save his life, and at that point, there would be fallout and he would have no other choice.

"Sit," John said, deciding already on his immediate plan of action. "I'll sign your damn papers in a minute, and when you take those back to the pathology department of the lab, you're going to drop off another ABO sample. Extra confirmation on his blood type."

"I thought you already knew his blood type." Mycroft had not yet sat down as asked, and John glared at him, pointed at the chair until he complied.

"Of course I know it."

John was nothing if not patient, volunteered nothing further immediately. Mycroft wasn't placated by the answer, not yet. "So if he's already low, how smart is it to send another specimen?"

"I don't tell you how to run the country," he said, taking a shot at whatever Mycroft did for a living when he wasn't micromanaging John's medical care, "so I'd appreciate it if you'd let me rule my particular kingdom here. But if you must know, ABO mismatch is the deadliest kind of blood transfusion reaction, and sending off another sample assures that we'll hands down, full stop, get the right type. It cuts down substantially on the already remotest incidence of human error."

"It was just a question." The snide tone was back, dripping and arrogant.

"Of course it was," John said. "And there's your answer, but the one I wanted to give you was the same one Sherlock told you a few minutes ago." He hesitated, waited, made sure Mycroft was paying close attention. "Piss off."

++

Sherlock slept through John getting supplies out again. While he assembled things, he ran the stats in his head, the absolute risk factors, the percentages, the feasibility. He would sweat the whole time, and he would be ready for the worst case scenario, but he would do it. A second IV line would be best practice anyway, so pulling off a small tube for the blood bank wouldn't be any additional sticks for Sherlock.

"Budge over," John said, touching Sherlock on the arm, trying to make room at the edge of the bed so he could sit down.

This time, John went for a large bore line in the antecub, explaining to his patient that another IV was being placed just in case, that he was sending a small extra sample to the lab for further testing.

Mycroft watched John bag and seal the lab specimen with the appropriate order inside. "This goes to accessioning," he said, setting the bag down. He filled out a prescription order for the unit of blood (which he'd never done before and would likely never do again, and figured Mycroft would take care of the rest of the process). Under his name, he put his mobile number. He signed the forms Mycroft had brought, and held on to them briefly. When Mycroft looked at him questioningly, waiting for John to let go, John's expression was serious. "This is a big deal, you know. We have a lot to do to finish getting ready."

"I understand, and I ..." Mycroft seemed puzzled by his own feelings on the matter, brow creased, "I'm grateful. You continue to impress me."

"Wait till you see my list of conditions."

"Take care of what you can, email me the rest."

++

The email list John crafted was to the point, included every medication he could think of that Sherlock might have required, a few additional monitoring pieces of equipment, and a bottle of scotch for himself that perhaps he'd have just the smallest sip of later, once they were on the other side of the blood transfusion. Actually, probably not and he didn't expect Mycroft to bring it anyway. But if he did, it would be saved for the completion of this patient, the moving out, the moving on. He texted Molly requesting a phone call at her earliest convenience, during which he explained what was transpiring, and that he needed a unit of blood picked up when it was typed and crossed from the hospital along with all appropriate tubings, fluids, filter, and paperwork. He also asked her to stay with them for the duration of the transfusion.

Intubation equipment, he hedged about, and ended up deciding that he didn't want it inside the flat, but in a fully staffed ambulance that would be parked outside for at minimum the first hour of the transfusion, the most dangerous time.

The anaphylaxis kit also ended up on the list. Then as a final item, he listed full and complete medical records as previously requested. 

++

Sherlock had no interested in drinking anything, so John took care of his nutritional needs again, parenteral nutrition, followed by the protein supplement, but held off on the paracetamol in efforts to not mask any fever reaction later with the transfusion just in case there would be one. Just by watching Sherlock's carotid pulse quality, John knew the blood transfusion was becoming unavoidable, and needed to happen sooner rather than later. His cardiac workload - supplying oxygen, perfusion tissues - must have been remarkable. By mid afternoon, John had received a few deliveries from Mycroft, all appropriately labeled, and then finally notification from the lab that the blood was ready. Final arrangements in place, he texted Molly, approved pick-up. Then, once he knew Molly was going to be arriving shortly with the blood in a cooler, that time was of the essence to infuse it within two to four hours, he helped Sherlock to the loo. When he was ready to head back to bed, John held him fast in the hallway a moment, also partially holding him upright. He could hear the pulse oximetry alarms sounding remotely, sensors still attached to Sherlock's toe, from the bedroom.

"Not the bedroom this time."

"Fine, floor," he truly looked like he didn't care, but John held him steady, keeping his knees from buckling.

"Sitting room this time. Couch." John wanted him closer to the door in case there was a problem, where if a team needed to get to him there was better, quicker, more open access. Emergency transport, if needed, would be easier from the room nearer the stairs.

Sherlock groaned, and John could hear the non-verbalised complaint that the couch was too far away.

"You can rest on the couch."

"Bed's closer."

"Humour me," John said, helping propel him the other direction, where John had already set things out that he would need, including a hook for the blood products, the rest of the monitoring equipment, the IV fluids in case they were needed. Everything else was close enough at hand. "So, you listening?" John asked, letting Sherlock sink into the couch, no reserve, no energy. Sherlock tried to catch his breath, ended up mildly diaphoretic for a bit. John connected the actual telemetry monitor this time, where he could see not only the heart rate but the ECG rhythm and complexes. He would know if Sherlock was getting into trouble that way, just for his own peace of mind.

++

The wind howled outside the makeshift medical tent, sand pinging against the thick plastic windows. John exchanged a glance with the barebones medical staff that had intentionally stayed behind with two patients too unstable to survive transport. Bad weather, threat of attack, executive decision - withdrawal of patients and personnel had been well-performed. Most of the power was already out, the emergency generators supplying some of the IV medication pumps, heart monitors, oxygen condensers, enough electricity for light to see to basic needs. There was no air transportation - too windy - and no hospital within a several hour radius even if the patients were stable enough to be evacuated by ground.

Small medical team, all volunteers, and two patients, who had no choice. The first was a vascular repair with tenuous blood restoration to a foot. Moving him would be dangerous, possibly induce vascular spasm, impede circulation, and none of the medical team wanted to risk the man losing his leg.

The second, the sicker, more fragile patient, was a young man with a cardiac history, already diagnosed with heart disease at his young age, signs of probable viral endocarditis. John wondered at how he had passed his admission physical workup given his underlying disease, made it into the service at all. Heart function - ejection fraction - after this last go-round of chest pain had been down to less than 15%, his heart muscle weakened, dilated ischemic cardiomyopathy, inconclusive signs of vegetation on one of the valves. Even turning and positioning him induced coronary spasm. The ECG monitor at times showed evidence of ischaemia.

"Doc?" the patient whispered.

John rose, approached his bed, and out of deference to the patient's obvious distress and the need to hopefully allow those who were waiting out the storm, there in the makeshift hospital, to rest, he perched next to the bed. "You all right?"

"I have a bad feeling." John's glance flicked to the monitor, took in the sagging ST segments, the quickly-evolving terrible gray colour of the man's face. "Something's not right," he said, face tight and afraid, eyes clinging to John's. "Doc?"

Taking his hand, John could only watch the man's face as the ECG changed configuration again, the ST segments inverting, widening, slowing. There was a breath, another, and John felt one of the nurses approach from behind him, touch him on the shoulder.

There was nothing to be done, but the offer was made anyway, "Can I bring anything?" She knew, as John did, that even in an urban hospital this would likely be futile. "Epi?" It was the first drug for pulseless rhythms and would need CPR to circulate it if the patient deteriorated.

John shook his head, not wishing to subject the man to final minutes of torture, for his last awareness to be pain and suffering, to be frightened. The outcome was foregone.

She nodded, sadly, still feeling the urge to do something, ease the process. "Pain medicine?"

The man's eyes were now wide, frozen, unseeing. Perfusion had already ceased, circulation previously compromised now profoundly so. Complexes on the monitor still marched along but not generating much, if any, of a pulse. Pulseless electrical activity.

"It'll be okay," John said, his hand still clinging to the patient who was still somehow managing to cling in return, but the grasp was loosening. 

The nurse eased a hand along the man's temple, brushing lightly against the skin. "We're here," she said.

The complexes grew slower, wider. the colour went from pale to cyanotic to gray.

Beat. Beat. Beat.

Beat.

Asystole.

Alarm silence. He placed his stethoscope to the patient's chest, listened a full thirty seconds, watching the monitor and for signs of chest rise. Nothing. John checked the time. "Time of death oh-nine-fifteen."

"God, I hate it here sometimes," she said, flipping the monitor off.

"I know." John stood, the losses hard still after these few months deployed. "Thanks ..."

She let out a harsh snort of sound. "You too. Sorry ..." _there was nothing more, that he was so sick, that ..._

The dividers between patients seemed a blessing, then, keeping the sounds and sights of the dying from the immediate view of those in the next beds already worrying it was going to be their turn next.

++

A couple of pillows behind his back seemed to help a little, and John tucked another under his knees. Once it finally seemed Sherlock's distress was such that he could likely listen, he tried again to explain things. "Remember I had told you your blood counts were low?" John watched his heart rate, 140s after activity, still, and staying there. "Dangerously low. We're going to give you some blood this afternoon."

The heart monitor immediately jumped up ten points. "No."

"Sherlock," John began, ready to explain, but in short order, John's mobile buzzed. It was Molly letting him know that she was a couple of minutes out and had actually secured a ride in the back of the ambulance that had been commissioned to wait out front.

_"No hosp -"_

"You need it." Sherlock's eyes were wide, panicked, and John was quick to say, "Right here, at home, you're staying," but Sherlock wasn't hearing, wasn't listening, had already presumed the worse and was upset, retreated somewhere unpleasant in his mind, body restless, breathing hard.

"I can't -- you don't understand --" The monitor alarmed 196, and his hands were shaking as he began to pick, randomly reached, tremulous, desperate, for the feeding tube, both IV sites, but his coordination was off and he couldn't actually grip anything. It was reminiscent to John of the patients he'd seen half out of their minds with illness, sepsis, meningitis. Reasoning with someone in that state was almost impossible. With unfocused eyes, his frightened expression seemed searching for something, wary and suspicious.

++

He was missing something. Still. The block of time that was gone, was still gone, and it was important. He _hated_ not knowing. There was something _right there, and he couldn't get to it,_ couldn't sharpen the image, couldn't use the fine tune knob of the microscope to see. It was like trying to see a reflection in a mirror that was broken, the spiderweb of a shattered looking glass, useless and frustrating. No matter how he squinted, turned it, moved, it was still out of his reach, unobtainable.

Something ominous, threatening was on the horizon, headed straight for him. He couldn't see it, perceived the threat, he'd been sold out, held against his will. It was from a long time ago, the absent memories haunting, revisiting from time to time. Especially when that sense of foreboding niggled at him. Like now.

A quick tug at his arms, still held fast, strapped in. The rest was fuzzy, the details, his location, what was happening. Then stinging, floating, complete amnesia. Details, the missing details, was disturbing.

What remained sharply vivid, though, was the loss of control, the anxiety, the sense of impending doom.

Less fortitude, and he'd be crying. There was a stupid piece of pride that at least clung to that. No weakness, no tears.

It would have surprised him to know that the tears had indeed been flowing over his teenaged cheekbones. He waited, there was no choice but for it.

++

"You're safe, you're staying," John leaned close, bending right over him, holding him by both upper arms and speaking calmly to him. Sherlock'd at least nodded to a question or two when he could hear the deep rumble of the ambulance arriving out front, the beeping reverse notifications as it parked, deployment of the brake, several doors open then slam. Sherlock's behaviour deteriorated, associating the rig with obvious unpleasantness, and despite John's telling him he wasn't being transported, he clearly didn't believe it. Tachypneic, diaphoretic, simply _beside himself_ , he was largely untouchable and unreachable as the sound of approaching people got closer to them. He was agitated, hyperventilating, lips cyanotic, the pallor becoming a dusky underneath it as his oxygen consumption rose. He thrashed best he could given his weakened state.

The idling noise of the engine got louder when the door opened. Moments later, Molly and Mycroft were inside the flat, stunned into complete stillness, both with wide eyes as they watched John attempt to deal with the half-hearted agitation, the distress, the emotion underneath it. The worst part, John realised as he attempted to subdue the flailing and thrashing limbs, was the anguished and deeply heartfelt words that came from Sherlock’s gut - starting with _no!_ and devolving to a cry of despair. A tear slid out from the outer canthus of his eye, dripped down onto the pillow before John could brush it away. There was just the one, and John tried to spare Sherlock his dignity.

John pegged his glance on Mycroft. "Have them turn the bloody ambulance engine off." Mycroft disappeared briefly, and Molly set the cooler down. "Thanks," John said. Sherlock's hands were twisted in John's shirt, legs too weak to thrash but definitely not relaxed either. "Sherlock, listen. Stop this right now. You're staying. This is all precautionary."

A broken whisper, broken and hurt. "Please no." His voice sounded younger, vulnerable.

Mycroft had returned then, a stealthy presence at John’s elbow. He'd heard. “I tried to warn you.”

From the couch, Sherlock was clearly not processing things well, but he was calmer - exhausted, absolutely nothing left, no more fight. Eyes closed for a bit, opened abruptly, scared again. "John?"

“We’re not going anywhere, Sherlock. We’re absolutely not. I told you about needing a transfusion, and we can do that right here.”

There was still panic in Sherlock’s frightened eyes - a deep terror, fear, absolute panic, actually - but he stared hard at John, motionless, making an attempt at comprehension.

“Take a deep breath. They’re dropping supplies off, and then it’ll be just you and me and Molly.” For as much as watching Sherlock's struggling, the resignation and surrender was almost as bad. He'd given up, as if he no longer cared.

“And I,” Mycroft added, earning a glare from John.

“No.”

“Until you get started."

John's teeth clenched, decided fighting with one Holmes at a time was plenty, thank you very much. "And then you are leaving. Unless your brother gives permission.”

Both looked at Sherlock who clung to John still, and slowly shook his head - even that small amount of movement seemed to tire him, John thought, and he was anxious to get started, apparently having already waited longer than medically prudent. A quick glance at the heart monitor was somewhat reassuring - nothing urgently brewing or evolving so far. “Out,” Sherlock verified, in a quiet voice.

"You're safe, you'll be fine," John said, disentangling Sherlock's grip from him so he could stand. He washed his hands again along with Molly, who did the same. They found gloves, and stood side by side, he and Molly while they went through the verification process - name, date of birth, group and type, unit number, expiration date. There was another full set of vital signs, a temperature monitor that John had only read about that was wearable and would readout continuously on an app he'd just downloaded on his phone. The strip went below Sherlock's axilla, high up on his lateral ribcage on his chest. They compared the lab printouts with Sherlock's bloodwork from earlier. All seemed in order.

John primed the tubing, connected the blood, and set it to infuse slowly at first, using one of Sherlock's two IV sites.

He was taping down tubing when Mycroft cleared his throat. "I have several more items to bring in," Mycroft advised as John grabbed his own bottle of water, took a sip, watching Sherlock, the blood, and the monitors with vigilance.

He returned with a a bottle of expensive Jameson, and what looked like a very large, heavy crate of what John assumed were medical records. John locked eyes with Mycroft Holmes, who said, "I truthfully expected you to insist on them prior to commencing," and his eyes flicked to the bag of dark crimson blood.

"He needs it too much for me to be a complete prat about it." John blew out a quiet breath. "Crisis averted this time. Your withholding information could have harmed him." 

“I deemed it on a need to know basis."

“How irrelevant is it now?”

Mycroft snuffled a bit, hands in his trouser pockets. “Perhaps I erred in judgment.” He tapped the box with his foot. "Not exactly light reading."

"I wouldn't expect it." John wondered, finally, if an explanation of what had happened to Sherlock's back would be forthcoming. "Any surprises?"

"Spoilers, Dr. Watson." True to their discussion, Mycroft said his farewells, asked for an update when the infusion was complete, and left.

The first half hour passed, and Sherlock stared nervously at the blood as it dripped, the tubing burgundy red, entering his arm, until John finally moved the set up behind him, where he couldn't see it as readily. "You're fine, this is going fine. Maybe close your eyes?" John said, watching the man primarily, glancing at the monitors every now and again. He and Molly talked quietly, mostly about her present school studying, papers, and projected course for next session. Mostly Sherlock's eyes were half open, but he was calm at least if not sleeping.

At the ninety minute mark, with no sign of any issues, John asked Molly to go kerbside to dismiss the ambulance.

Sherlock shifted on the couch, and John was right there to help him reaccommodate, knowing by sound and sight that even moving was uncomfortable. Once he'd turned, John adjusted his arm so that the blood was dripping unhindered. For good measure he checked the other site, found it intact, and Sherlock muttered, "This is why you put in the second IV site?" They listened as the ambulance drove away and Molly returned.

"Yes."

"Redundancy."

"Not if something happens, and the only line infiltrates."

"They're annoying."

"You'll keep them both until the infusion is complete and I deem it appropriate to remove them." He watched Sherlock swallow, wriggle his nose as if the tube was bothering him. "Plus, they were not easy to get in, thank you very much, with your history and the scarring and your probably being a little dry."

"Most people can't get me." He relaxed his head back against the pillows. "You're a pleasant exception."

"God, the compliment."

"Don't get used to it. I'm _anaemic_ , you know."

"Noted," John said, eyeballing everything again, liking the stability. "I got used to soldiers with profound injury, very little circulating blood volume. Skill came in a little handy today."

++

"John! John!" His eyes were open, sensing the level of alarm, the urgency of the middle of the night awakening by one of the medics. "Need you for a trauma."

Minutes later, clothing and boots, medical bag, he was in the passengers seat being rocketed across camp to where an overturned vehicle fire was burning, a civilian vehicle nearby, abandoned. A lure, John knew, a trap, rigged to injure the person who came to investigate, offer aid. Intended to maim, not kill.

Shit.

He didn't recognise the injured, checked a dog tag. "Corporal Kennedy, I'm Captain Watson," he said, quick survey as he'd approached. One of the corpsmen there flashed a light at the man's lower extremity - crushed in a tangle of metal, sliced nearly clean off, the ankle and foot nearly unrecognisable as such. A makeshift tourniquet had been applied, but the blood continued to pump. There was a puddle of ooze, dark, burgundy, too much.

Shit, shit.

"I didn't see, I couldn't tell, there was ..." and he rambled a few minutes while John could see nothing else amiss. "So glad," he said, clutching at the medic who brought John's pack to them, began to open it.

"Glad?" John asked. Confusion, hypoperfusion, hypoxic, could be anything, so he sought to clarify while distracting.

"Can feel both my feet. Gonna be all right."

From close to John's side, a voice spoke up, "How is he even still conscious? Half his blood volume's on the ground."

John ripped open some IV supplies while the medic next to him primed a line. "Little IV fluid for you, some blood soon," John said. "Jeep ride to the hospital," he added.

"Both feet, both feet," he said again, "So relieved, can feel them both."

"We'll see about the damage," John said quietly, "IV poke here, hurts like a bear." He cannulated the vein, which was nearly flat, with a large bore 14, sensing massive fluid resuscitation and blood products in the man's future, if he even survived to the OR. "Take a look at your leg."

"Girlfriend likes to dance, need both feet," he said, though his voice was quivery, weaker.

"I'll try," John said, the line connected, running wide. "But Corporal, you should know it's pretty beat up."

"Beat boxing, beat one off, beat you up, the beat goes on ..."

A backboard appeared, and many hands came together, turning, sliding, lifting. The jeep was still running, transported the team to the OR.

A week later, sans one leg from above the knee down, the man was medically discharged. John had stopped by to say goodbye to him, offer support. From the wheelchair, the man had looked up, attempted a smile and wave, then his sad and shocked eyes were drawn back down to where the trouser leg folded up, tucked neatly underneath him.

++

Another glance at the monitors, the blood was just finishing, and all was stable. He offered Molly the chance to leave, and she smiled, nodded, and was gone with a grateful smile. John changed the roller clamps so that the saline was infusing, clearing the entire line of the last remnant of blood, wanting Sherlock to be given the advantage of every available corpuscle. Once it had completed, he capped, flushed, red-bagged the used tubing. He would take an uneventful blood transfusion any day of the week. Wonderfully, thankfully, spectacularly, mundane, routinely, boring. _Thank god._

As promised, he texted Mycroft that all was completed without complication. Assessment wise, Sherlock of course looked no different, his heart rate still high, still working a bit to breathe. Effects of the transfusion would not be immediate in most cases, but within a few hours and hopefully over the next few days, John expected that his colour would improve along with his stamina. He was, however, more relaxed, therefore, and so was John. Sherlock watched as John’s grin briefly appeared, an assurance that he was fine. Sherlock closed his eyes, calmer, restful.

"What movie do you want me to put on?" John asked, holding up a Fast and Furious movie in one hand and a classic James Bond in the other.

"The inside of my eyelids will be eminently more fascinating than either of those."

"Want me to help you back to bed before I watch the Bond film then?"

In answer, Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, mummy-style, and closed his eyes. "Cold," Sherlock whispered, and John tossed a blanket over him, tucked in, then took a seat at the opposite end of the couch, after loading the disc. It took about one-quarter of the movie to elapse before John realised that at some point, Sherlock had tucked his toes under John's thigh. The movie was excellent, as John'd known it would be. He glanced frequently at Sherlock, telling himself the monitoring was all part and parcel of post transfusion monitoring. The frequent checks of his mobile - assessing the continuing temperature readings - all standard care, and had nothing to do with the toes, or the long eyelashes over pale skin. It could have been the vulnerability John had witnessed, or the underlying grit Sherlock had managed to show, ultimately listening and following directions and trusting.

The movie held his attention, the toes under his thigh a distraction from time to time. When the movie ended, he figured it was as good a time as any to remove some monitors, get Sherlock back to bed, remove the IV sites, grab a bite himself. Glancing over again at his patient, he was surprised to see Sherlock was wide awake, quiet, resting, breathing easily. The eyes staring at him were pale, glittery, intense. It took John a moment to realise why.

Not only had Sherlock's toes ended up under John's thigh, where they were delightfully warm and a not-unpleasant connection, but at some point, John's hand had found Sherlock's ankle, his calf, and his hand lingered, circled, as if they belonged there. He realised that, without conscious effort, that his fingers had very definitely been moving, settling, circling. The heat between their bodies, the skin contact, was a reminder of their proximity, an expression of comfort. 

It was quite intimate. John worked hard not to startle, stand up, back away, flee. Heart pounding, he slowly let his fingers relax, slide off of where they rested - possessively - on Sherlock's calf. Wordlessly, he let go completely, and stood up. 

++

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is actually a continuous read-out wearable temperature monitor that communicates via bluetooth with an app, available on Amazon. 
> 
> https://www.amazon.com/TempTraq-Wearable-Smart-Thermometer-Continuous/dp/B01L9GV66U?th=1
> 
> ++
> 
> Don't try this at home, even if someone's older brother says it's ok and gets permission. Blood products are for hospitals or infusion suites only.


	9. Exegesis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up.
> 
> John's got his work cut out for him...
> 
> New tags.

The monitors were quickly removed, Sherlock holding his breath as John removed the chest leads and temperature monitoring pad, set them aside. A quick check of the rest of his vital signs - everything stable - and John shut the telly off, waited for Sherlock to at least agree to moving back to bed. Once standing, Sherlock seemed to take a fresh look about the room.

"Oh," he said, a lopsided although fleeting smirk. "Access."

"Yes, and thankfully unnecessary." John stood next to Sherlock as he simply gathered himself, the mere act of standing upright somewhat taxing and worthy of attention, focus, bloody effort. "Stand up tall, now."

"I am tall."

John's whispered 'berk' brought brief smiles to them both, but John didn't lose sight of what they were doing. His knees bracketed Sherlock's own in case they buckled, and one arm held Sherlock's nearer arm, the other spread across Sherlock's back. Support, readiness, camaraderie. "While you're up, deep breath." He did, and John prompted through a few other directions, "blow that out," the relaxation of his tense shoulders, some posture adjustments, nothing especially aerobic. The hand behind Sherlock's back massaged lightly at first, then stronger, the fingers and thumb of John's hand working, pressing into tight, sore muscles of Sherlock's back. "Shoulders up high, good, now back down, relax." Even after a few minimal tweaks, John thought Sherlock seemed slightly more at ease. "Better?"

Half-hearted shrug.

The ordeal of getting Sherlock back to the bedroom wasn't awful, not quite as exhausting as the trip out, but still, by the time Sherlock was kind of sprawled long-limbed across the bed, he was still winded. The distance and the effort and the change of focus for John, from the lean build of Sherlock's ankle - _that he'd been caressing unknowingly, but it couldn't have been long, could it?  Focus, Watson_  - to monitoring his progress, his remaining symptomatology, was helpful in his regaining his own control, too.

"You said ... blood would help." An accusation was buried in the statement somewhere.

"It will. It's not usually immediate. Sometimes, but not always."

"Exhausted." Sherlock rolled again, arching his frame, trying to get his head toward the pillow, mostly succeeding. "And sore."

John had known that already, simply by the expression, the grimace. "Hungry?"

"I'd like to be. Too tired to eat."

"Well, I can bring you something anyway, if you want to try."

"Maybe just tea, if you're offering."

John padded out to the kitchen, flicked on the kettle, did a quick inventory of the kitchen, straightened up a bit while he waited. The box of medical records sat untouched, and before too much time had elapsed, John was back in the bedroom. The migration to Sherlock's bedside included two cups of tea, a plate of crackers, fruit, cheese, and nuts.  If nothing else, John wanted something available in case Sherlock opted to try something. He also carried back the solidly packed box of Sherlock's medical history.

"You're going to be disappointed. It's not exciting in the least." Sherlock sipped the tea, the tube dangling askew in front of his mouth and getting in his way, the scowl deepening each time it happened. Finding a piece of silk tape in the supplies, John secured the tube out of the way, although once he'd done that, Sherlock handed the cup back, too uninterested and fatigued to have any more.

"That's fine, but it's relevant."

Sherlock looked unconvinced.

John reminded him, his tone neutral, "Hospitals don't hold any appeal for you, do they?" Sherlock was as closed off as could be. "Frightening, even."

"Do you blame me?"

"Of course not, given all the unpleasant associations." Asking about blame was somewhat insightful, though, as if someone had given him a hard time. "It's not your fault, your reaction, you know."

"I think I'd rather die than go inpatient again."

John could have called out his behaviour right there, his choices, his _poor_ choices, the path he was on. He would have mentioned that if the goal was avoiding hospitalisation that he should clean up his act and stay that way. But John could see his heart rate, from the simple pulse oximeter monitor that he'd reconnected, rise a bit. One thing at a time. "I'm sorry you were upset earlier." They were treading on thin ice, he knew attempting to proceed delicately.

"Don't force me to go, no matter what."

"No one can promise that." John set the tea down, tried to keep his voice gentle as possible. "You're safe here, and there's no plans on the horizon other than getting stronger." With an intentionally cool voice, he added, "So you're right, the records may not be helpful in the least. I'll take a look through."

"Rehab, rehab, appendectomy. Broken arm as a kid. Probably chicken pox. Rehab. Drug tests. Might've been an OD once."

" _Once_ , yeah?" John's emphasis on the word and his accompanying smirk let Sherlock know of his disbelief, and from the pillow there was a self-deprecating moue. If Sherlock had been watching for John's reaction, a fussing response, John didn't plan on giving him one. "Door stop, then, when I'm done."

"Kindling," Sherlock suggested. With a heavy sigh, he watched John assemble a cracker, cheese, grape. The only thing it looked like he had energy enough to move was his eyes. "To annoy Mycroft."

John sipped, snacked, adjusted Sherlock's pillows. "Want anything?"

Minimally, he shook his head.

"Guess you don't want to do you own feeding then?" John asked, only sort of kidding.

"If I had the energy for that..." he let the sentence drag out, trail off, still not moving.

John shook a can of tube feeding, prepared it, set it to infuse slowly by gravity. Sherlock barely seemed awake. "Mind a little music?" When there was no response, John clicked a few buttons on his computer, serenading them this time with something more current, easy listening. He heaved the crate of paperwork near his cot, got engrossed in the records Mycroft had in fact come through with the delivery.

For the most part, Sherlock was right. Rehab, drug stint, a few overdoses - unintentional, by the records, but John wondered if there had been a time or two when it was more than that, where he certainly didn't put any value on his own life and the high risk-taking behaviour was evidence of that. From time to time, he looked over at Sherlock, wondering at the sadness and loneliness that seemed conveyed in the timeline, the circumstance where he'd been brought in as a Joe Bloggs, unresponsive. He'd been involuntarily committed that time, a brief stint that ended his first attempt, first year, at uni. Mycroft had called it sectioned. When he'd glanced over at one point, Sherlock seemed to be snoring softly, his hand curled over the slight - albeit temporary roundness of his belly. Sherlock was thin enough that it probably felt quite "full" to him after a feeding. Once it was done, John rose to take care of disconnecting, flushing it.

He was tired, too, the days events not specifically bodily exhausting to him but certainly the vigilance required had been taxing on a certain level. He set the papers aside, stopped the music, and turned out the light.

++

The following day, John had been through the box, learned a few things, was mostly ready to pack it away for Mycroft to pick up. "Well, you definitely don't have thalassaemia."

"So?"

"Your anaemia is from other causes, then. Probably poor nutrition, bone marrow underfunctioning rather than something acute. That's all."

"I say it again, _so_?"

"Well, it would be noteworthy if you had it and were planning on children some day. Or if you had a severe enough case - which is a moot point - to develop iron overload, or need regular transfusions, which you don't. Your iron levels were mostly in the range of normal."

Sherlock looked somewhere between bored and irritated.

"It's your health history, is all. So I thought you might be interested."

"Not in the least."

"I'll get this packed up. Anything appeal to you food-wise? Placing a shopping order for delivery for later today."

"Perhaps pain medicine stronger than the crap you've been giving me."

It puzzled John why Sherlock was particularly angry, feisty, downright irritable. "Something on your mind?"

"Get away, leave me alone."

"What's wrong with you today?" John gave him another quick once-over, not seeing anything overtly amiss. 

"I. Don't. Feel. Right."

"Mind, it takes time, recovery." Sherlock made a puss-face, turned away annoyed. "Let's get rid of those IV sites."

"Let's put something stronger into them first."

"That's a no."

"Spoilsport. Waste of a good IV access."

"I'll be encouraged that the access is still good, that you're aware of quality work. An underhanded compliment, ta." There were gloves, gauze, tape, pulling of both lines. Sherlock looked everywhere but at John, so he didn't notice the little extra touch John had surreptitiously put into the task. It wasn't until John had binned the waste that Sherlock happened to glance down, see the folded, square white bandages. With smiley faces drawn on them.

"Oh dear lord, _no._ " Long fingers reached immediately toward the gauze taped to his skin.

John had been ready for him, quickly snatched at Sherlock's hand, caught it, held fast, not allowing Sherlock to do as intended, rip it off. "Leave it. I'll not have you bleeding on the sheets. Or your clothes."

Given Sherlock's present irritation, John did in fact decide to let him stew in his own juices for a bit, made a few progress notes (or lack thereof), and was just ready to pack up the empty box with Sherlock's medical records when he spied a folded envelope stuck between layers at the edge of the cardboard bottom of the crate.

It was sealed, marked with the initials WSSH, and dated with only the word 'summer' and a year. Quick calculations would have been Sherlock at about age 16, and John settled back against his pillow, back against the wall, to open the envelope.

The entirety of the several pages of documents were written in French. Almost immediately, he recognised enough words to know that these records were more unusual, more serious, possibly going to be enlightening. And trouble. Sherlock had spent time in a psychiatric hospital in France. Best he could tell, had a length of stay of about three weeks, and John recognised the ominous nature of some French words, procedures done while admitted there.

  _Traitement par èlectrochocs._ Electroconvulsive therapy. the words similar enough to English that they were not a huge stretch. The documents would need translation, but John got the gist of them.

There was a brief moment where he must've forgotten to breathe, and the whispered words 'oh god' seemed to be circling in the room as if he'd uttered them.

Sherlock spoke. "What?"

John supposed that he had, indeed, whispered the exclamation out loud.

"First of all," John said slowly, buying time, "I'm not sure where this came from." Sherlock, for all his fatigue from earlier, his irritation, seemed rather calmly, singularly, seriously focused on John for the moment. John scanned the rest of the document, found it likely to be a discharge summary. "Let me remind you that you're safe here."

"Get on with it."

Easy, keep it light, go for a roundabout approach for the moment. "Do you remember being hospitalised in France?"

"I wasn't -" he began, somewhat confidently, but then he hesitated, puzzled, stopped speaking. "Oh, right, we used to have family holidays there, summers, I think, spent a summer..." and at that point, his brow furrowed. "But I was never..."

John's mind spun, wondering how best to proceed. He fired up his mobile, opened google translate, brought the camera to the form. He was particularly grateful that he was on his cot, while Sherlock was a few feet away in his bed and unable to see what John was perusing. The separation was a good thing. "Your date of birth, January 6."

Sherlock nodded.

"This is a discharge summary, written in French. From the summer you were sixteen, or thereabouts."

"No, can't be. Wrong." He brought his hands to his face, rubbed, temples. His brow wrinkled again. "I wasn't. I don't remember, oh, might have been..." he held out a hand for the papers, which John ignored. " _John_ ," he cued, his fingers wraggling for John to hand the papers over.

"You're going to bloody well wait for me on this." The mobile, the translator app, one that he'd used fairly regularly in the army, utilized the camera, simply and easily translating more common languages just by holding it over the foreign words. John had already recognised enough words to be alarmed, but now he could get them all. There was apparently a family scandal, social crisis, hint of legal proceedings which were thwarted. A teenager brought to a medical hospital not in good shape, transferred to the psych facility.

Family scandal.

_Family scandal._

His jaws clenched again, and he wished Mycroft's neck was in the room so he could wring it. Throttle it. Forcing his own jaws to relax, he flicked a glance at Sherlock, who was still watching. He'd be lucky to still have any teeth left by the end of this particular patient, the way he kept grinding them together.

The papers shook a little as he straightened them, adjusting the mobile, kept reading. John had never heard of the hospital nor the name of the small town, but it sounded private and exclusive. Some of the translated words included a few such as intermittent catatonia, mania, severe depression, and aggressive behaviour. The paragraph threw the phrase 'sociopathic tendencies' in, and John could feel more than his teeth come together in annoyance. There was tightness in his chest, irritation on behalf of the medical profession in general, a wave of pity for the man who now lay a few feet away. Something just didn't seem right, and he kept reading.

 _"John,"_  Sherlock finally said again, a bit of an edge this time, obviously not appreciating being kept waiting and his limits were being tested.

The writing was small, and John took his time despite knowing that Sherlock was running low on patience. Finally, he folded the papers up, set them aside. With a dry mouth, he steeled himself, drew a calming breath. Holding the papers in one hand, he moved over so that he could sit on the foot of Sherlock's bed, closer, where he could see for himself, gauge his reactions, be closer, be on the same horizontal level. Be _prepared._

He disliked giving difficult news. But, like other unpleasant things, it had to be done. He faced it, owned it, and began ...

++

He'd done it too many times over his career - surgery, med school, the military hospital. "We worked hard, tried everything, were unable to save the life." "I'm sorry for your loss." "The damage was just too much, I'm sorry." "The cancer has spread, unfortunately, there's probably not a lot of time left." "Inoperable, I'm afraid." "Incurable," was one of his least favourites.

It was not all roses in his present role, either, as a home medical coordinator. "She refuses to quit using." "I got a call from the morgue." "The drug screen is positive, I'm sorry." "There's been a setback, a relapse."

He typically tried not to be long-winded, using clear language, not rushing.

He'd received his share of bad news, too. "You'll never perform surgery again, Dr. Watson, I'm sorry." "The nerve damage is permanent." "Don't bother your da when there's a bottle nearby." There was the bad news he'd read when he'd been selected for the special teams deployment, where there had been an attack, his injury. There had been the young boy, John's patient, the victim that had been at the epicenter of the confrontation in his unit. "I'm sorry, John. His family signed him out of the hospital. We don't know where he is now."

Take stock, regroup, make a plan.

Or, sometimes, run, hide, fight.

In this case, buckle up.

++

Sherlock sat quietly. He listened, his face a study in maintaining a void of expression. The blinking, faster than usual, at least clued John that Sherlock was hearing him. While John could tell that his breathing was shallow, there was essentially no other outward reaction.

"Papers."

"I already explained..."

"I want to see them."

"They're in French."

"So?"

If the situation were reversed, John knew that he would want to see them personally, too. "I can translate for you. I use an app..."

"Unnecessary."

John was a breadth of a second behind, realised the truth. "You speak French."

"Of course. Fluently."

John held the envelope tightly, making no move to hand them over yet. A small part of him was concerned that it just wasn't wise.

"John, please."

"Hold on a moment."

"They're mine, _my_ records. _Give."_

"Speak these words before I do, out loud: I am safe here."

"Don't be an idiot." They stared, both serious, focused. John raised one eyebrow, and Sherlock snarled, "No."

John's smile did not quite reach his eyes. "Repeat after me: I am safe here." Sherlock's eyes blazed back at John, his jaw set in stubborn, silent, imperious defiance. John was not going to be cowed. "I swear to you, I will light them on fire if you don't do what I bloody tell you."

Huff, clenched jaw, puff, sigh, annoyed face. "I am safe here."

"Like you mean them."

"Oh for gods sake, give over."

John stayed right where he was, but reached out, and the papers were snatched from his proffered hand. He watched every nuance of Sherlock's very slight changes of expression. He read each page, slowly, then finally folded them up, put them back in the envelope, held it out in John's direction.

"Electroconvulsive therapy."

"Yes."

"Shock therapy."

"Yes."

"How can I not remember that?"

"Not an uncommon thing. Sedation, general anaesthesia." John did not add that the whole point of the therapy is to treat rather severe mental health issues, that by doing so, the therapy causes seizure-like activity of the brain, that there is rigidity, sore jaws, confusion, memory loss, and often an almost post-ictal state in many patients.

"I have vague recollection of going for _testing_. The hospital was in the mountains, I think."

"You have questions." John kept his voice, eye contact steady. "Ask away, if it's something I know."

"Would they have started an IV? Scalp wires?"

"Yes to both, of course. For medications and monitoring."

"Extreme."

Sherlock's insight was encapsulated singularly in that word, but John didn't want to leave it so harsh sounding. "Usually only for certain types ..."

 _"Extreme,"_ Sherlock offered again, flatly.

John didn't disagree. With a qualifying and hopefully softening half shrug, he did finally nod, agree, "Yes."

"Ever seen it?"

"Medical school rotation." John could have volunteered quite a bit more, but Sherlock didn't seem particularly receptive. He remembered the patient, not a lot of details, but could still hear the altered speech afterward, the flat personality, the haze, fog, dullness of interactions.

"How is it possible that I don't remember it?"

"Again, much of that is expected. Retrograde amnesia for a block of time." John could almost feel and sense Sherlock's walls going up, being built up around him. "You were really young, Sherlock. I know it's frustrating to be missing a memory like that."

Icy daggers shot John's direction. "Dare say _you_ recall being sixteen, yeah?"

"True. But sixteen is still young, and obviously, you were in a bad way, having a rough time."

"I had no idea." The voice was younger again, hurt.

"You'd been using already, before that. For a while, by your records. It stands to reason then, that you don't remember," John told him, softly.

"No one told me."

"I'm sorry."

The cool aloof voice was back, distanced, and Sherlock's shoulders shrugged as he said, "It's fine. Fiiiiiine." The word was drawn out, as if to make it so.

John wanted to ask at least seven questions right off the bat, to find out what he remembered about the circumstances that led to this treatment, the crisis - family scandal - that precipitated it. Clinically, Sherlock was stable enough for a conversation like that, but emotionally, there was too much fragility, too much at stake. John would back off, simply support, wait for the right opening, for opportunity.

And for the moment, Sherlock said he was fine. In fact, he said it twice. He was _done_.

John didn't believe that for a second - _fine? no I don't think so_ \- as he watched Sherlock shift in the bed, lean a little over to turn on his side, pull the duvet up to his chin. There were closed eyes, stillness against the pillow, the faint rise and fall of his chest, breathing. For a few minutes, John thought perhaps Sherlock had drifted off to sleep, but then there was the slightest shake of his shoulders, a tiny hiccup, a different pattern of breathing. He stayed where he was at the foot of the bed, watching, waiting, listening. There was the sound of hard swallowing, a tremulous couple of breaths, and Sherlock's hand worked its way to his mouth, fingers over lips that, John was close enough to see, _trembled_. Ah, John realised, he was trying to suppress any outer sign of distress. He stayed like that, eyelids squeezed tightly shut rather than be merely closed and relaxed, fingers pressing lips against teeth, for a few minutes. Shortly, John could sense movement under the covers, and the faint wedge of Sherlock's toes slid down in John's direction to tuck under whatever part of John was within reach. At the moment, it was John's thigh.

The seeking, the searching, even if was just toes toward John, seemed to convey that he was tentatively, figuratively peeking around the corner, trying to find meaning, reaching out, to make sense of it. To connect, to not be alone. John was ready, took the opportunity, speaking into the openness, into Sherlock's pain. "I'm sorry you found out this way. I'm sorry it happened, and for whatever triggered it," John's words were barely more than a whisper, and he reached his hand down to touch Sherlock's leg. John's fingers spread out over the muscle, which was tight, quivered slightly at the warmth pressing down through the bedcoverings.

The touch did Sherlock in, a warm, expressive demonstration of caring and concern. It was the tipping point, the catalyst, the final straw. From the pillow, duvet right up close to Sherlock's face, there was a snuffle, the faintest moan, a very softly breathed, "Oh god, no." A quick inhale of distress, and then a sob. The duvet went up over Sherlock's face, pulled by pale fingers.

The sob was the first of many.

John didn't give the situation any hesitation, simply launched quickly but smoothly, tucked himself up against the headboard, wriggling under the covers himself, reaching out an arm and an offer of comfort, of physical presence, of another person to help share the hurt. And so that was how Sherlock ended up, head resting against John's armpit, knee tucked up over John's knee. John's solid arms wrapped around Sherlock's thin frame. John let the tears fall, offering kleenex and simply his presence, an easy embrace. Words came, simple statements offered in support, a restatement of any and all varieties of "you're okay, you'll be okay, I'm not going anywhere, you're better, and you're safe."

Eventually, spent, Sherlock lay exhausted, wrung out, limp with very little muscle tone. His cheeks were splotchy, still pale but evidence of having been upset, coloured a faint pink hue. "I still don't remember, barely anything. It's just ... _gone_."

"I know. Part of me is glad you don't remember more than that, it was probably a rather unpleasant experience." Sherlock's head rolled slightly closer, just under John's nose, and he breathed in the scent of shampoo, of clean male, tinged faintly of sweat. "Explains your extreme aversion to hospitals."

There was a sniffling snort again.

"Quite understandable." John felt the longing to brush his hand over Sherlock's head, to soothe the idea of the therapy he'd had - electric impulses to this very head. This head, subjected to controlled doses of electrostimulation. Had they cut his hair? John was feeling both protective and territorial, caring for the totality of the person under his care, his charge. First, he recalled the familiar words, _do no harm_. He breathed slowly, pondering, then asked quietly, "Listen, all right if I ...?" and he brushed his hand over Sherlock's temple, stroking and smoothing the unruly hair, taming the curls, hoping to quiet the maelstrom of thoughts probably whirling. Sherlock nodded, but did more than that too. He _preened_ , turning slightly against the pressure of John's hand, a cat responding to a rub on the ear, a distraught child seeking comfort from a quieting embrace, a wounded soldier that would calm and settle under the confident hand of a nurse. As John's fingers splayed, rubbed casually, Sherlock's head sought out _more_ , more touch, more connection. A nonverbal plea, don't stop, don't leave, make it better, keep going.

"I had a nanny who used to do that when I was little."

So many things John could have asked about, starting with something like where was your mum and other unhelpful observations.

"My curls were blond then."

"Not hard to imagine."

"Ginger as a ..." Gulp, swallow, shuddering inhale. "... as a teen."

There were no electrodes on his head, no therapy, no physical scars. Barely audible, he spoke into the curls, "You're okay." John slowly stretched out his fingers, drawing the locks out and then letting them spring back in place. "A nice association, then, the nanny?" Dwell on the coping, the positive, the pleasant.

"Yes. I seem to recall not sleeping a lot, one of them would read to me, late at night." John filed that away for another day.

John chuckled a little. "I seem to recall reading late at night too, but with a torch, under the covers, until my sister ratted me out, put the kibbosh on that. We shared a room. Small house, you know."

"I had a _wing_." He said it exactly as John took it, negatively. "Keep me out of everyone's way, they hoped."

"I'm sorry for that, too." He aimed for lighter-hearted, "Though you were probably quite a handful, in their defence." _Right now, you're quite an armful,_ John didn't say out loud, but his arms tightened anyway, and there was a response from the man, an exhale, a cleansing breath.

"True." Long minutes went by, John's fingers working a while until they tired. When he stilled, Sherlock didn't move, but was definitely still awake.

"I seem to recall something, though not directly, not exactly anyway." His words were quiet and low, as if embarrassed or ashamed. "I think I remember being strapped down. Wrists and ankles."

"Sometimes. Not always." The head tucked beneath his chin turned upward, questioning. "Only if you were endangering yourself. Out of control."

Had Sherlock asked, he would have explained that the ankle restraint was how they could monitor the presence and absence of seizure activity. The tetany would have been prevented in that extremity only, by a tourniquet over one ankle. "And I think I remember saying, begging, don't hurt me." There was another shudder, hitching of Sherlock's torso, and a moist warmth through John's tee shirt, close to Sherlock's eye, but neither acknowledged it. Another full body tremor jarred the mattress, and John's hand eased Sherlock's head closer, the fit quite close, secure, reassuring.

John's arms tightened, his own eyes nearly filling in empathy, throat tight, remembering that night where Sherlock had clung, his words tripping over each other, don't hurt me, don't hurt me, _don't hurt me._

Even as it was still gut-wrenching, it made more sense now.

++

Eventually Sherlock had fallen asleep, limbs finally relaxing. John disentangled himself in slow, gradual degrees, over the course of long minutes until their bodies were no longer touching at all. To prevent heat loss and minimise the risk of awakening, John tucked the duvet in close as he slinked back in the bed. He waited a while, watching Sherlock's respiratory pattern stay calm, even. He waited longer, until he was sure he could risk it.

John crept stealthily out of the bed, down the hall, taking his mobile with him.

**Come at once if convenient.**

It wasn't enough, wasn't answered immediately, wasn't even read right away, so John sent another. It was rare that as a civilian he resorted to swearing. This time, he felt justified.

**If inconvenient, get the buggering fuck over here anyway.**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ECT is still a thing, safe and effective when done well, used rarely for patients intolerant to medications or when medication is ineffective. The facts, as John mention, are that the patients get general anaesthesia along with sedation for the treatment, and there is a tight cuff or tourniquet placed on an ankle for monitoring purposes. Also true that patients frequently experience some amnesia while in therapy.
> 
> Google translate does exactly what John says. Very, very cool. Only available in certain languages. I found it particularly helpful to translate a label on a bottle of wine. Yes, it was actually important at the time. Cherry notes and a finish of pepper ...
> 
> So the question is, did Mycroft intend for that particular record to be in the box? Did he know about it at all? Oh Mycroft, you might've just unleashed Dr. Watson opening a can of whoop-ass. [Whoop-arse?]
> 
> And yes, of course Mycroft knew.
> 
> ++++
> 
> Please let me know gently if I missed anything. This chapter, ugh. The loose ends deliberately left here, I can assure you, John's got them all in hand.
> 
> ++++
> 
> I know I keep promising to make things better... We're not quite there yet. But I do assure you, this is where the healing begins.


	10. Implosion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter starts off as expected with John and Mycroft, and ends up with an explanation then goes ... somewhere else.
> 
> Oh, Sherlock...
> 
> I'm beginning to think that none of these characters should be particularly underestimated, yeah?

John's mobile rang, and he snatched it before the first ring had completed. Curt: "Hello, Mycroft."

Lilting: "I wondered when I'd be hearing from you."

John kept silent. Seething. Hopeful that the anger was well-communicated over the connection.

"How's your French, Dr. Watson?"

"Quite rusty, ta. Thank god for technology."

"You have questions, and I ..."

"I believe you were instructed to come over."

"Yes, well, that is not poss---"

John hoped that Mycroft was particularly irritated, aggravated, aggrieved, irked, annoyed, and most of all insulted when he realised he was speaking to a disconnected mobile. He immediately powered his own off, and went to stand in the doorway of Sherlock's bedroom to watch him, keep a close eye, while awaiting the sound of car arriving, door opening, and footsteps on the stairs.

++

"You knew."

"Of course I knew."

"You set me up."

"You were fully vetted. You have handled many unexpected twists. In the military as well as personally."

"Imagine how betrayed your brother feels."

"Imagine how betrayed he would have felt to learn it from me after all this time."

"He has."

"Not exactly, yeah." Mycroft's brow raised slightly as if to punctuate his not-question. "I felt this a more palatable option."

"He already has some difficulties with you, his past." John wanted to ask how long Sherlock has resented his brother, opted not to. "Not helping, this."

"Oh, but it will. He'll come around. I think it's high time he moved on, don't you?"

"No, I think this little ... dramatic reveal was all about _you_."

"Be that as it may..."

"Would have been nice to have discussed this, planned well, done this when he was better. When he was ready." John and Mycroft were still toe to toe, barely inside the sitting room, though John was quite attuned to the possibility of any sound from down the hall. So far, still silent. "Timing."

"I believe I warned you when you took the job, that you had no idea what you were in for. I meant it then, and still do."

"You had no right to withhold this kind of --"

"You chose to enlighten him immediately. You could have read that summary, saved it for later. You went all in, laid all the cards out on the table as it were."

"This is much more serious than a card game." John's voice was low, threatening, unhappy as he reminded Mycroft of the stakes.

"The analogy is apt though." Mycroft checked his pocketwatch, though John was fairly certain it was more about making an  impatient show of boredom than for actual information. "Now, you summoned me here. Exactly what do you seem to think you need from me?"

Mycroft's condescension in both tone and posture was palpable,and unacceptable, and John was not about to let it go unchecked. "I feel compelled to remind you that none of is is about what I need, nor you for that matter. It is all about what _Sherlock_ needs." John raised a brow. "You opened this door. You need to go talk to him."

" _Au contraire_ , Dr. Watson. I stood back and watched you open it." There was a slight smirk, a bemusement as John's eyes widened at Mycroft's intentional, provocative use of French.

Defensive, John bristled. "He was sitting right there, watching. I was unprepared, and to have attempted a cover-up, a diversion, would have undermined the trust he has in me. No choice but to proceed."

"As I knew that you would. You do have a predictable penchant for full disclosure, do you not?"

John could feel the rage just bubbling up, fists ready to fly, shoulders tense, his body ready to counterbalance the delivery of an emphatic punch. He wouldn't, he had much more self-control than would ever let him act upon it. But that didn't mean he didn't relish the inclination that he could. He'd heard more than his share of nasal cartilage splitting, imagined it now, the meaty thwack of blood vessels oozing, the grunt or cry of the person now in acute pain. He added Mycroft's own already nasal huffing, his icy face bruised and bleeding and taken down a peg. With great pleasure.

The self control, the great restraint, was actually quite satisfying as well. Knowing he could but that he wouldn't. Upper hand? _Yes, thank you very much. I'll take that virtual satisfaction. For now._

++

One of the youngest in his new governmental division, Mycroft had been settling into his new role less than a year when the rest of his family went on holiday to a lovely, smaller cottage in rural France. Though they'd invited him, he'd felt obligated to decline, unwilling to ask for time off after a relatively short tenure there. This position, they all were aware, was a gateway, a stepping stone, to greatness. To bigger and more influential governmental roles.

He would later regret the decision to not accompany them.

There would be an email from time to time, his mum sending along a few pictures or a short update on their adventures. Usually, it was a short, "Here's a photo of us with " so-and-so, or of one of the buildings, or a remote connection to London, an estate groundskeeper, a sighting of an animal. But they were light, shallow, almost pointless in their nature, so when a few days went by and he hadn't heard anything, it did not alarm him.

The wee hour of the morning mobile ringing, however, _did._

His mum hadn't even waited for him to say hello. "Mycroft! It's just horrible, I can't believe it... your brother, and that _friend_." He'd sat up, bleary, blinking. Her sobs penetrated the late hour and the long days having found him deeply asleep, and he couldn't keep up with her continuing words through her upset.

"Mum! Slow down, what's gone on?"

A quivering breath, the moan of deep-seated pain. "Oh, god, please come _fix this."_

++

"You. Owe. Him." John's words were slow, delivered with all seriousness.

There was a snort, Mycroft's head tipping slightly to the side as he did, as if he disbelieved John's statement.

"Oh, yes." John'd had enough, moved down the hall on solid footsteps. "The explanation is long overdue."

He stood in the doorway, a hand holding the door open. From his vantage point, he could see Sherlock, still either sleeping or resting. Mycroft stood in the sitting room, had not budged but his eyes were more open, face more drawn. The unspoken resistance might as well've been audible. John held his expression, but was not displeased. _Good. Let him be anxious._

"Sherlock," John said gently, his voice calm and unhurried. "Your brother is here."

Silence, communicative and intentional. John could hear Sherlock breathing, knew he'd been heard.

"I asked him to come."

"Threatened." Sherlock hadn't moved, spoke monotone from his bed.

Even upset, exhausted, and probably very uncertain - truly, the gravity of the event must have left him still shocked - Sherlock could still perceive what John wasn't saying. With a wry smirk, John replied, "Sort of, yeah."

"Is he injured?"

"Not yet."

"Pity."

"Agreed," John let himself speak his mind. "You need to talk to each other."

"Joy bells," came the response, slightly muffled against the pillow. "No interest, no thanks."

John left the door wide open, made a sweeping gesture with his other arm, beckoning Sherlock's brother. The ensuing next seconds seemed to freeze, devoid of motion, reminiscent of those rare times in the army when a subordinate hesitated just slightly, making a choice, before following one of John's orders. John's body responded out of almost reflex, of rote. His bearing rose, chest out, shoulders tensed back and imposing. The expression, though, was the clincher. It had always been. One eye would narrow, a brow slightly raised while the other slightly creased. Steady, dark eyes seemed to rivet, demanding obedience and threatening somehow just in the pointed, direct gaze that seemed to say _or else._

Mycroft apparently was not as immune as he would have liked to think he was. A few steps, a disappointed sigh, and he was in motion, crossed in front of John to approach Sherlock.

John waited until he was a couple steps inside the room, that Sherlock was all right for the moment, and began to close them inside for their private, family discussion.

++

Mycroft would remember very little about the trip to France except that he sweated the entirety of the train ride. He'd gone to work early to discuss his need for a few days off. His immediate employer listened, expression completely guarded. Mycroft nervously stood there to give account of those few loose ends and a few business details to see to before he could even think of travel plans, of temporarily leaving the job.

He'd begun to explain the urgency of the situation, but before a name, detail, or request had been issued, there was a hand held up, halting his words.

"I already know about your younger brother. Drug possession, illegal substance use. Physical outburst."

Mycroft stared, surprised. _They already knew?_ The word came out of his mouth before he could reign it in. "How?"

Faint smile, one of confidence and the upper hand. "It is our business to know our pressure points. Our vulnerabilities."

His immediate supervisor had been brutally direct, blatantly obvious in his next instruction:  _You must handle this, discreetly, and allow no black marks to even think of finding their way to your own record. Am I making myself clear, Holmes?_ A mobile number had been pressed into his hand. It was, he'd been told, someone who could clean things up, make things go away, and was to be implicitly trusted.

When Mycroft had nodded, both of them with wide open eyes, staring, his supervisor had laid it even further on the line. _Your own career is at stake, so act quickly, as this whole department could be affected if you screw up. Think carefully, because you would be offered up, the token sacrifice, without a moment's hesitation. There can be no hint of misconduct or impropriety._

The empty office he'd been left in seemed to be closing in, his throat tight and stomach roiling. The stakes, he realised, were much higher than they'd seemed.

His mother had only said that Sherlock'd been caught high, a drug bust involving the son of the town's mayor. They'd both been taken away, the friend to jail, Sherlock due to his age to a juvenile holding center. The friend had apparently blamed Sherlock for all of it, and that news had not gone over well. The municipal law enforcement was believing the local resident, the politically connected young man. By the time his mum had phoned, Sherlock had been taken to a hospital, out of control due to a breakdown of sorts. Agitated had been her word, violent behaviour, spouting all sorts of ugliness.

 _Physical outburst_ , his supervisor had said. He could well imagine the teenaged temper-tantrum, fueled artificially, the anger he'd occasionally sensed in his brother finally breaking free.

He'd tried to ring his mum as the train was pulling into the station, but there was no answer, his family unreachable. The address he had at least gave him a direction. From the back of the cab, he phoned the number he'd been given, his assistant, his cleaner. Names and sketchy information, as much as he had, was exchanged.

"Sit tight," the voice had said. "I'll get back to you."

Mycroft had arrived much later to the hospital, his mobile ominously silent. The hospital had no information available, no record of Sherlock's whereabouts. He pressed, standing to his full height and very aware of his youth and his inexperience even as he demanded to talk to a supervisor. But his assertiveness paid off with success when a stoic hospital administrator approached. All he was told was that he'd been transferred to a small, private hospital there in France. When he'd asked for more information, the matron only shrugged. "A threat to himself, and a threat to others. Sent for treatment, all it says." When he asked for a phone number, another shrug. "Not listed here, I don't have it. It was doc to doc consultation, best of my knowledge."

"Address, please."

"Only a postal box given, and the town." She handed him an index card, facility name and address listed. "Good luck to you." Before he could even say thanks, she'd turned away. Mycroft shrugged, a wry smile. It would have been an insincere expression of gratitude anyway.

++

"Oh, no, Dr. Watson. You're staying." John's hand froze on the doorknob at Mycroft's statement.

"It's not a medical thing, it's really none of my ..."

"John, please," Sherlock spoke, his voice sounding old and tired, slow. "Of course it is."

"For all your requests for information, it strikes me peculiar that you wish to remove yourself now." Mycroft on the defensive was a miserably haughty being, even as he tried to press the issue. "I'm certain --"

"Just stop." John was not about to be oppressed or cowed. He turned back to face the men in the room, a dark look about him. "Family scandal? Are you sure I have _clearance?"_

"You've been escalated a few levels higher," Mycroft spoke quietly, "since the day you arrived."

John had asked him once, when he'd pulled strings at the hospital and with the NHS blood and transplant division, who are you? This time, he kept the question to himself.

++

Mycroft dialed his mums mobile number again from the kerb, heart pounding, imagining his parents having to navigate a system they'd never encountered before. Sherlock's drug usage, Mycroft had managed to keep from them, hoping like many other young people, he'd outgrow it and they would never need to know about it. Apparently he'd waited too long, and they had to be (understandably) blindsided.

Voicemail again, he left a curt message requesting a return call. The facility name he'd been given was also rather undiscoverable at first, no listing, no further information available at first. He found another cab, requested to be taken to the city in which Sherlock, and likely his parents, were now. His mobile was still silent, and once there, he found a small coffee shoppe. And, there at a table, overnight bag at his side, mobile charging, he waited. The heaviness of the day, the stress of travel, the worry about not only Sherlock but the rest of his career had him feeling overwhelmed, and he tipped his head back against the wall, closed his eyes just for a minute.

Next awareness was of the barista shaking his arm gently, "Sir? We're closing soon. And your mobile's been flashing a while now."

He must've been knackered to have missed the vibration of the mobile. Three missed messages, two from his mum and one from a blocked caller. He checked that one first, and was mildly queasy to listen to the very short message: _It's all being taken care of._ His mum's were also to the point: _Call me when you get this._ The second one more irritated, _Where on earth are you?_

He dialed quickly, shouldering his bag and leaving the cafe with an embarrassed wave to the woman who'd woken him. His parents, he learned, were waiting to visit Sherlock and would meet him at a hotel they'd reserved a few blocks away. His offer to join them was immediately dismissed by his dad, saying that they only had a few minutes each day, and couldn't miss it. The line was then silent.

He attempted to ring the number of the man who had helped already only to find that the number he'd been given, the number he was to use for assistance, was no longer in service.

++

After a rather frantic and disjointed few minutes when he finally was able to locate his parents - his dad, eyes distant and overwhelmed, and his mum, tearful - he could finally piece together the story. The boys'd been caught, arrested, charged - all of this Mycroft had already known. Sherlock had been blamed, fingered as the supplier, and as he was being taken to the juvenile centre, he'd spiraled explosively out of control as the officer attempted to place him in the rear of the police vehicle. There had been kicking, flailing, and a surprisingly well-placed blow from Sherlock's handcuffed arms at the policeman.

The legal charges had started off with assault, drug use, intent to deliver, and a few other misdemeanors, but had been "somehow, surprisingly" reduced to possession. The solicitor that had been assigned the case had apparently even been puzzled when informing the family that due to his age, his records would be sealed as a juvenile. For all that the other boy had insisted it had been Sherlock, there'd been a drastic change of story, a confession, a complete turnabout, an admission of guilt that didn't include the naming of anyone else. Mycroft's dad had shrugged then, relating that the attorney had no explanation for the pardon, the expungement, the mercy. They'd been advised to simply accept their rather surprising, turn of fate in their favour.

"So I gather he's still hospitalised? Safe?"

"Yes, calm last we saw him. Not up to talking yet. He'll be there for three weeks." His dad went on to explain that the rage, the agitation, the seriousness of the attack on the police officer and the unresponsiveness of his brother to any of the medications they'd tried, had left them with few other options.

"I don't understand. He's been ... _sectioned_?" Mycroft could only whisper the word.

"I suppose so, but...  This hospital, I wish you could see it. State of the art. Beautiful facilities and grounds."

"Three weeks seems excessive."

"His physician met with us at length. He assures us that this is highly effective. They've already begun, today was his second treatment."

 _Treatment?_  "Different medications, then? They found something that will help?"

His parents had exchanged a glance, worrying Mycroft with their evasiveness. "No," his dad had finally said, reluctantly. "Electroconvulsive therapy."

"I've never heard of it." _Please don't let it be what it sounds like._

By the time they'd explained it, Mycroft was far beyond queasy, lurched to his feet in distress. Thankfully, the gents off the lobby was not only close but vacant, where he emptied his stomach in privacy. His dad had come in as he was rinsing out his mouth. "He was so out of control, you realise. Sounds like it was quite ... violent and ugly." Their gazes had met in the mirror, the fluorescent lights washing out Mycroft's already pale complexion though his cheeks were blotchy from retching. "He hid this from all of us. So I don't want to hear that you are feeling badly, son. If we had only known he was using drugs before, perhaps we could have prevented it from getting this bad."

"If only..." Mycroft echoed, giving his mouth a final rinse.

"We could have kept him out of trouble."

"Indeed." He could feel his heart racing, pounding, picturing Sherlock alone, frightened. "Is he ... okay?" His throat was very dry, the words coming out strained.

"He will be. Very restricted visiting. Hospital is completely confidential, secure, gated, and locked of course. All records will be completely sealed, too." Mycroft followed his father out of the gents on shaking legs. "And on another stroke of good luck, because of the conditions of admission, his stay is fully paid for somehow."

Mycroft was glad his father's back was toward him. "Curious," was all he could find to say.

++ 

"I'll see myself out." Mycroft had barely finished the story. They all knew it was the abridged version.

"Wait." John was not about to let him rush through this without giving Sherlock a chance to speak. "Sherlock?"

Blink. Blink. Eyes random, unseeing, lost in thought. He pulled idly at the duvet with his fingers.

"Any other questions, anything you want to say? Or ask?"

"No."

"Well, then." Mycroft stood to his full height. "I'll see myself out," he said again with a bit more attitude this time.

"I'll walk out with you."

"Stay." From the bed, behind closed eyes, under the covers, "Just say whatever you want in front of me." John and Mycroft exchanged a quick glance, many things unsaid, an exchange of worry and of course a mutual decision for some censorship. Perhaps. "For a bloody change."

John briefly thought of arguing, decided Sherlock could probably stand hearing whatever he had to say. Though he would be careful, he thought Sherlock could benefit from knowing someone was on his side, willing to defend him, to stand up boldly on his behalf. To Mycroft, "You realise this has rather eroded my trust in you. What little there was."

An inhale, a controlled and deliberate silence. Soundless exhale.

John cleared his throat quietly. "It leaves me wondering what else has been hidden, if there will be other surprises you have in store for your brother. And," John could feel the defensiveness, the protectiveness, _embraced both_ , and continued, "the correct answer had better be absolutely nothing."

"You should understand, Dr. Watson, that people don't always do what is best. That ultimately decisions are made that have gross impact on their futures. Repercussions." He was icy, aloof. "Like filing an internal misconduct report, as I'm sure you recall."

"I would do it again."

"And I would like to have the opportunity to choose again, but to take my present position, security, and experience to that 23 year old uncertain, government official fledgling to the situation." There was emotion on Mycroft's face, unpleasant, remembering what John could tell was also a terrible association. "I was completely alone, and had many things happening simultaneously, serious things, and undefined responsibility. It was difficult to control what was going on, working with limited data, in a different country, with extremely limited resources."

John had enough. His skin tingled, fists itching for some brotherly striking, and his mouth engaged. "Enough. Sherlock and I," the sarcasm dripping from his lips in waves, "are _so_ devastated that you had decisions to make and felt abandoned." He rose, stood by the bedroom door. "Let me remind you that Sherlock was the one left alone, and had zero control over what happened to him." John jerked his head toward the door, an invitation to leave. "Out." Rather, a dismissal. "Now."

++

After Mycroft left, John watched Sherlock settle, or try to, his body and mind probably seeking the escape of sleep but unable. A few seconds, a thrash, another position, a frustrated breathing and tossing of position. Restless, itchy, anxious.

From the chair opposite the bed, he waited until the time seemed right. "Change of scenery?"

"No." Sherlock flopped again until he was on his back, one knee raised, arm up along his face. The feeding tube came in contact with his hand and he let out an irritated sigh. John thought briefly, that he would grab it, pull it out, and actually kind of wished he would. His patient could control so little of his present situation, that his removing the tube might actually help him express some of the anger. That little bit he could control. The arm skittered briefly across his chest before grabbing the selvage of the sheet, relaxing.

"Let me know if you need something. Want something."

"I think you can well imagine what I _want_."

"You know what I mean."

"Fine." His voice was monotone, flat. John would have preferred angry. "I want you to get the hell out."

"Other than that, sorry." He consulted his watch for the time, asked Sherlock out of technicality if he was eating. When Sherlock simply rolled his eyes in defeat, John set about taking care of that. If nothing else, he thought, perhaps a full stomach would help him find the escape of sleeping more readily. Sherlock watched John's actions with distant eyes. "This day has been hard on you," John finally said, sensing that Sherlock was a bit more receptive and the room was still and quiet.

"I always thought something big was missing. I think I always knew, a missing piece of the puzzle, something that was never talked about."

"I should think you'd be angrier," he offered, dangling the idea out to see if Sherlock would nibble at the concept.

"Yeah, well." He let his eyes drift closed, and John did then note a couple of things: he was breathing more rapidly than usual, and his jaws seemed tight. "What makes you think I'm not angry enough?" Sherlock didn't wait for John to reply. "Because I'm fairly pissed off."

"Just checking," John said, somewhat pleased that Sherlock at least acknowledged that emotion. "How do you usually handle being angry?"

"Stupid question."

"Yeah, _that's_ not an option for you." John perched in the chair across from Sherlock's bed. "Some people like to exercise, go for a walk, burn off some frustration somehow. Get the blood flowing."

"A cigarette would be nice."

"Fine." 

John was pleased when Sherlock's eyes then snapped open, coming to rest abruptly on John's face with both shock and delight.

"Not in the flat. You can get dressed, and we'll go outside."

"I can't. Not like this, not with this," he gestured at his nose. "I dare say I'd collapse if I tried to walk that far."

"Okay, something to aim for, then."

"You'll take me out for a smoke?"

"One. And yes."

"I'm not hallucinating this?"

"No."

"Dr. Watson. You've managed to surprise me."

"John."

"I know, I used the title deliberately." Sherlock's one-sided smirk was back. "Not very doctor-like."

"Not the first rule I've bent. Won't be the last either."

++

John could recall some bending - and breaking - of the rules. On the big decisions, the ethical dilemmas, or on patient safety, John had never compromised. But there'd been softer gray areas, and he'd occasionally been called on to advocate for patient or family when the system was failing them or when a delay would have been costly. He'd helped patients qualify for medications, extended admissions when needed, or in the army, had recommended an extra day or two of R&R for both physical and emotional recovery when it was necessary.

++

John cued up some background music a bit later, hoping that the noise would lull Sherlock to sleep, or at least relax him enough to settle. After the fourth or fifth toss and turn, with accompanying huff and tug at the bed linens, John paused the music.

"Good, that was a terrible arrangement anyway." The venom with which Sherlock spoke was far more than the music deserved, and they both knew it.

"Are you really upset about the musical performance?"

"Yes." Not quite a snarl.

"There's not something else on your mind, perhaps, making you a little irritated?"

There was a slow turn as Sherlock rolled over to issue a death glare at John. "Pardon me for being unpleasant."

"Oh, you don't have to be pleasant." Sherlock snorted at that, and John thought he heard the word 'idiot' under Sherlock's breath. "If nothing else, Sherlock, our relationship is confidential. What you tell me goes no farther, unless you tell me you're suicidal or conspiring to injure someone, in which case... " John let the sentence trail off, weighing his words, "well, I suppose I should have to report that, though in all fairness, I might give you a head start in one particular direction."

Sherlock, for all his orneriness and irritability, let out a small chuckle. He actually _snickered_ , a bubbling though short-lived sound deep in his throat. "That was terrible."

"I was kidding, by the way." Clearly, the way John defended himself, he was likely _not_ kidding and Sherlock knew it.

"I don't think you were."

"Don't test me." John was grateful for the laugh, even the brief one they'd shared. "On a more serious note, I've been told I'm a good listener, so you can mostly have free reign to say what you'd like."

Sherlock's face just sort of closed, the seriousness descending on his expression like a wet blanket. His lips, still pale, drew together in a tight line, as if he wanted to speak but was resisting.

"Just an offer, if you're interested. Whatever you'd like."

John watched a few emotions play about on his face, and finally he gave in. "I should have known, should have remembered, something that big, that ... drastic. It makes no sense that my brain would have somehow ... deleted it." For the animation of the earlier snippets of conversation, this was low, flat, monotone.

"You were not to blame." The look on Sherlock's face clearly indicated he disagreed. "Not your fault."

"You ever keep things from people? Big things, I mean."

++

The sounds of the generators in the triage area were a background noise to the rapid pace, the high acuity, the crisis - the lights, the movement, people everywhere, controlled chaos. Captain Watson and one of the triage nurses moved quickly from one trauma patient to the next. Tagging, ordering stat resuscitation if there was any benefit, forming a mental line to the OR, pulling the occasional sheet over a lifeless face, moving on.

"Doc!"

"Carnegie," John said checking the dog tag. "Pain?"

"No," the soldier said, something akin to a smile on his face. "Thank god. Can feel both legs, too. Thought I was done for when the strike hit." His voice was a little slow, little shaky, his arms cold, clammy, even his ears dusky. Shock.

A brief survey, the quickest glance between John and the nurse. The trauma tag she handed him was black, and he nodded. Both legs were gone, the abdominal dressing saturated, skin and organs shredded. How he was even remotely conscious defied any description or explanation. Aorta probably clamped off somehow, John thought. "We'll take a look at you in a couple of minutes. IV fluids for now," John said, the sternal IO line infusing wide.

The breath Carnegie exhaled was through shaky, somewhat blue-hued lips. "'Kay. Hey, doc?"

"Yes," John made sure to keep his eyes bright, away from the damage, away from the nurse just in case their exchange was too revealing.

"I'm gonna be all right, yeah?"

"Of course," John lied. "Right as rain, kicking up your heels in no time."

++

John restated the question about withholding information. "There's a time for that of course. Keeping things from people for very limited reasons."

"You ever keep things from me?"

"Such as?"

"Oh, treatments planned or your expectations. How long you're staying on with me?"

"I think I've been fairly up front with you. How long I stay depends on the contract I signed with your brother." He kept it intentionally light. "And how well you progress, I suppose." Sherlock's face looked tight and drawn at John's words. "Not anytime soon, all right? We still have some work to do yeah?"

"And you owe me a cigarette."

"As I promised, yes. And you don't have to worry about me keeping big things from you." Sherlock still seemed aggravated just under the surface, and John wanted to find a way to defuse it before it became more problematic. "I think I proved it today."

Sherlock asked the question with his eyebrows, not speaking a word, as if challenging John's comment.

"Keep in mind that I certainly could have folded that record back up, that paper, without saying more than something vague."

"Maybe you should have." Sherlock's shoulders were tight, his irritated voice dripping venom. "Bloody hornets nest, it ended up being. Maybe I'd rather not have ever known."

"I don't think, actually, that you mean that. You just said it helped explain things, that something was missing."

"I'm done. Go away. Stop talking." Another huff, a folding of the pillow, and Sherlock angled on his side again, turning completely away from where John sat. "Leave me the hell alone."

++

John heated up his own dinner, brought it into the bedroom, sat cross-legged on his cot while Sherlock ignored his efforts to draw him out, start a conversation, or otherwise engage him. It wasn't until John had crawled under his own blankets and the room was completely dark that Sherlock finally sighed audibly and began to speak. 

"You know, it's not that it happened. There were times, I know, desperate times. I don't remember a lot of it, the times I'd taken too much, or too often. I get that, I guess. There's a vague memory of pain and being beyond reach, out of control. And not caring, not at all, a death wish of sorts I suppose. I do, well, I sort of ..." The quivering breath, and John considered moving closer, of reaching out a hand to touch as Sherlock talked, to be closer, using proximity as a centering tool. To remind him,  _still here, still safe, still okay._ "So yeah, not that it happened, but that it was secreted, non-disclosed. Hidden."

Pressing up on an elbow, John flipped the small lamp on, casting warm illumination across the room. It was barely enough to faintly glow around them. "Betrayal." John spoke the word quietly. He knew, he remembered, how hurtful that was.

"Exactly." There was another pause. "You think I could ever get those memories back?"

"Why would you want to? It had to be unpleasant." John sighed. "It may never come back spontaneously, you know, and hypnosis or other forms of guided imagery or recall, they are not without some drawbacks. Risky, even. I just don't see that it would benefit you too much. Some repressed memories are probably best left repressed, despite your quest for wanting to know about it."

"At least now I know why I hate hospitals passionately. Even the very word makes my skin crawl, that knot deep down." John nodded at Sherlock's uncertainty, as he sought to be sure that John was understanding. "I can't, it's... Cold sweat." John moved quietly in the room to sit against the edge of Sherlock's bed, and he nodded when Sherlock looked over at him again. "Also explains, well," and Sherlock's voice was quiet, he looked down as if he were ashamed, "explains something else too."

The silence drew long, longer. John finally uttered, "You don't have to say anything more, you know, it's okay." Sherlock's demeanor was oddly quiet, regretful. "I mean you can. It takes rather a lot to truly shock me." Like a French discharge summary. Or being reassigned to a mobile SAR unit. Or the first time his 8 year old self realised the bruises on his mum were definitively linked to the knuckles on his da.

++

"But why? Why do you stand for it, mum?"

"It's the drink, Johnny. It makes him ...  he doesn't realise."

"He shouldn't. And you shouldn't," John began, reflecting on other times there had been excuses, rationalisations, covering up. _I fell, I tripped, the dog, I'm clumsy sometimes ..._ "Don't let him!"

Her voice was sad, and her face even sadder, when she shrugged. "I'd never leave you behind, or Harry. And he'd never..." Her voice trailed, and then she plastered on a smile, ruffled John's hair. "We're okay."

"I'll tell him. I'll defend you."

His young spirit and invincibility made her smile. "You'll do no such thing. It's fine."

"But!"

"No, Johnny." Her sweet and loving hands came around his face, brushing at his fringe before tweaking just a little playfully at his nose. "Promise me you won't."

"I don't want to."

She glared into his innocent now-not-so-innocent eyes, reminding him that she was in charge. "Don't make things worse. Please."

"All right," he finally harrumphed, wishing he could fix things.

++

"Good stuff, yeah?" Victor sat back in the couch in the uni dorm, posture atrocious as was Sherlock's. Neither noticed nor cared. "Top notch."

"Fair, I suppose. For the price, it should be better than this, actually." The room shook as Sherlock's choppy eye movements prevented him from focusing.

"You know what else is good, on top of the good stuff," and Victor grinned as he watched Sherlock catch his drift, his meaning. The sex between the two of them was always heightened afterward.

"I do," and there was some rough and tumblehouse, good natured grinning and nipping and the inelegant, partial removal of clothing. Both were breathing heavy, pressing and seeking and Sherlock finally flipped over on his front, which was where it all went askance. He bucked a little, forcing Victor to grab him about the waist to prevent losing contact.

Victor, his long lean frame pressing down onto Sherlock, grinned, chuckled, "So that's how it goes tonight," and he pressed a kiss against Sherlock's shoulderblade, then quickly reached to catch Sherlock's wrists together, holding them together and still above Sherlock's curly head and pressing another hand down firmly between Sherlock's shoulder blades. "Sounds very, very good," and he punctuated his words with the undulating roll of his pelvis as Sherlock immediately tested the strength of the grip holding his partially immobilised hands.

It all went completely to shit from there, the explosion of Sherlock's desperate and wiry frame underneath Victor. A flail, growl, a quick twist, arms breaking loose, body spinning and off balance because of the restrictive clothing still on various limbs.

There was the abrupt roundhouse of a lower arm, the stronger ulnar bone coming into full frontal, direct contact with the meaty, fleshy portion of the bridge of Victor's nose. It exploded in a bright red, splattering volcano.

++

Sherlock's cheeks coloured, and he looked down, his own hands slightly fascinating apparently. It didn't take any manoeuvering to lean in just a bit, let his hand cover Sherlock's, once, briefly, before moving back again. It was meant as a simple reminder that he wasn't alone. "What else does it explain, Sherlock?"

"I, uh... it also explains my rather poor reaction when I, uh... got held down by a partner."

"During sex?" John said quietly. "Oh."

"Yes. He tried to hold my arms up over my head, just for a bit." There was an audible swallow, and Sherlock kept his eyes averted. "It didn't end well. My reaction was rather extreme. Broke his nose."

"Ouch."

"Blood everywhere."

"I can imagine." John saw no need to mince words. "Yeah, I would consider restraints completely off-limits for you in the future. Completely."

Sherlock's eyes were clouded, remembering. "Yeah, I suppose."

"End of the relationship?" John queried, sensing that Sherlock was trying to reconcile his discovery with the behaviour.

"Quite traumatically." His eyes stayed downcast. "And since then, nothing."

"No relationships? No partners?"

Sherlock was solemn, and added, "And no sex."

"I'm sorry you had a lousy experience. I would hope you haven't given up on it entirely."

"I suppose not entirely."

John could not have specifically put words to the relief he found in Sherlock's statement, but he absolutely was. Perhaps it was the earlier discussion about John's eventual moving on, when Sherlock was better. He was, despite his contrariness, good company and John did not especially like to think of him alone. There was a small smile shared between them, the light reflecting off Sherlock's cheekbones and curls, the golden light particularly flattering and warm. The energy of the moment, the very late night discussion, dissipated a bit, and John offered to stream a movie on his laptop.

"That'd be nice, I suppose."

"Requests?"

"Not really. Although, given your penchant for those mindless action movies, 007, or that ridiculous car-racing series, perhaps you could find something suitably intellectual?"

Sherlock only lasted through the first few minutes of the movie anyway, before falling asleep, and John wasn't far behind him.

++

John handed Sherlock the journal he'd added to their shopping list, a few bags of groceries that had just been delivered. They'd had a good morning, blood work sent and resulted approaching normal, a walk out of the bedroom again. Sherlock was laying on the couch, recovering from just the simplest activity, but overall John thought he was actually a little stronger.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, set the magazine down. "This one is lame, I found a typo in one last year."

John didn't bat an eyelash, simply pulled out the red biro from the holder on Sherlock's cluttered desk, offered it out to him. "Good, if you find any more, circle them, correct them as you'd like. We'll send the editors your corrections."

"How about a cigarette?"

"I have more nicotine patches, we'll change that tonight. You're still on twenty one milligrams, right?"

"You have a funny way of saying no." A sideways smirk, a roll of the eyes. "Doesn't help, no matter the milligrams."

"Make the best of it, I suppose. Or go without." John had moved to the kitchen, begun to unpack the shopping. "Some do find them helpful."

"You still owe me one." John came back to the doorway, questioning what Sherlock was saying. "A cigarette," he clarified.

"Dressed. And outside." Holding an empty bag, John stood where he could see the couch. "Ready when you are."

He shook his head, but the interest was definitely there. 

John took the remainder of the bags into the small kitchen area. "I'm making lasagne tonight. Your brother tells me you enjoy a fine Italian dish."

"Of course I do. Can you get me Roberto Bolle instead?"

"The dancer?"

"Obviously."

"What does he have to do with lasagne?"

"Oh come now, John. He's an Italian dancer. A very hot, fine Italian. A _dish_."

"Oh dear lord, your verbiage is pathetic. What are you, thirteen? And I have to say, the comment is rather out of character for you."

"Your word choice originally, _dish_ , and yeah well, I _am_ younger than you."

"Four years does not give you the right to young adult slang."

"Give me your computer, I'll show you his picture. Even you'd agree with me."

At that, John had stopped what he was doing. " _Even_ me?" Their eyes met, John in the kitchen, still holding a can of tomato sauce, and Sherlock attempting to make a joke about John's preferences. But apparently, they both realised, it hit closer to home than Sherlock was expecting. Or actually, not at all close to home. There was a moment, an eye connection, a charged pause in the air. It was Sherlock having assumed John was straight and John's expression clearly indicating something else entirely.

"Really?"

"Problem?"

"Of course not."

With a somewhat wry yet secretive kind of a grin, John raised his head a little, confidently. "Care to rephrase that at all?"

Sherlock's own grin was mildly mischievous. "Not especially. No need, apparently." As John tossed the can of sauce in his hand, he heard Sherlock mutter quietly, a whisper, "It's always something."

It didn't take long for John to assemble a simple, tried and true lasagne recipe while Sherlock did in fact peruse the journal John had obtained for him. A few times, he would cry out in annoyance and point out a few more formatting or typographical corrections, enough to get John wondering about how he would actually contact the editors of the magazine as he'd suggested.

John set the timer on the oven, and then took a seat opposite the couch, waited for Sherlock to set the journal aside, expectantly. "There's something I wanted to talk to you about."

"Other than you being bisexual?" A brow raised in amusement, just barely.

"Focus, Sherlock." John raised an eyebrow back at him, a dare, a challenge, a reminder of who was attempting to be in charge here.

"All right."

"Given the recent ... events that came to light, I think restoring normalcy to you should be a short term goal."

"A goal." Cautiously, he repeated the word, obviously concerned at where John was heading.

"Wondering if you wanted to talk about a plan."

"If you ask what my short and long-term objectives are for my immediate health I'm going to bed."

"I was thinking more along the lines of diet, activity, regaining your strength."

"Yes, to all of it." He looked bored again. "And?"

"I was going to ask if you feel your appetite is improving."

"My appetite is always abnormal."

"Having a feeding tube is also abnormal."

Sherlock was quiet, and John pressed on quickly, not wanting to identify too much with the adjective.

"It's been a good thing for you, I think your nutritional status is better. But I think it's reached the end of its usefulness, and it's time to get rid of it. And move on."

"Fine."

"I actually expected _you_ to remove it long before this. You know, display of uncooperative temper or some such."

"I'm never uncooperative." His delivery was flat, and John didn't especially care for it.

"Your baseline personality trait is difficult." John stated. "And that can be a good thing when you're faced with a challenge like you --"

"Challenges." The interruption stopped John short. " _Challenges_ , plural," Sherlock insisted.

"Yes. Strong-willed is just a positive facet of defiant."

"That's not what people usually say."

"That's because you don't stop at strong-willed or defiant. You take it further, dial it up all the way to impossible."

Sherlock brought up a hand, running his finger around the tape on his nose again. "So what's stopping me from pulling this out?"

"Nothing."

"It appears that you want me to." Sherlock sat up straighter. "Do you?"

"I'll remove it for you."

"Fine." Sherlock's bravado was short lived, and he grew suddenly still. "It doesn't hurt, does it?"

"Of course not, certainly much better than going in."

"I don't really remember that."

"Untape, slide out, no problem." John waited until Sherlock had nodded his agreement. "The expectation is, then, that you'll eat and drink from time to time. Regularly. One good meal a day at the very least, small snacks in between."

"I'm not promising."

"Then I'm not promising I won't put it back in." John wanted to elaborate, wanted to reassure him that the short term goal was to help Sherlock feel more _normal_ than he had in a very long time, and a feeding tube - definitely abnormal. He wanted improvement, measurable progress, and a sense of more wellness than ill health.

"Go ahead then." Sherlock extended his head toward John then, his nose extending slightly. It was a show of request, agreement, permission.

"All right." He brought out a few things, gloves, flushed the tube before removal so it was more clean than if he hadn't, and untaped the holder from Sherlock's nose. The tube slid out easily ("deep breath in, now exhale, good, all done"), and John binned the entirety of the set up. After handing Sherlock a tissue to blow his nose, which he did with a grateful smile, John returned to the kitchen, put the final touches on the meal. As he'd intended to stimulate Sherlock's olfactory senses, the lasagna smelled heavenly by the time it had baked, and Sherlock did manage to eat more than a few bites anyway. There was a bath that evening, an assisted shaving adventure that Sherlock started but John needed to finish, and clean sheets again. The bedroom ended up dimly lit, with John reading and Sherlock dozing lightly, until John finally, with heavy eyes himself, shut out the light and hoped for a good night. 

++

Nighttime still ended up proving a bit challenging, and Sherlock's sleep was disrupted either by trying to get comfortable, or dreaming, or something else entirely that woke him up. He would still, unfortunately, get the shakes from time to time.

"You all right?" John knew Sherlock was awake, could hear the breathing pattern, the activity, the irritated huffing he would do as he lay there.

"Want to come join me?"

"Not an answer, actually." John sat up, the cot making a slight creaking noise as he did so. "I asked if you were all right?"

There was another huff, and John could hear Sherlock moving, shifting, so he reached over to put the small lamp on again.

At which point, the reason for Sherlock's being awake and uncomfortable became obvious. His hand had fallen to his groin, where his pyjamas and the sheet were quite tented.

"Oh, right," John glanced at Sherlock's face, hoping he wasn't terribly embarrassed. "Would you like me to step out so you can handle that?"

" _Handle_ , very funny."

John was on his feet. "I'll just ..."

Sherlock's voice was annoyed. "Is this not something that falls under your jurisdiction?" 

In John's peripheral vision, he could see Sherlock's hand idly moving, not terribly deliberately or focused yet. "Actually no it is not. Unless it is a medical emergency, lasts more than four hours or is causing severe pain. And treating priapism involves needles and is ... well, let's start with _unpleasant_ , just in case you’re wondering, and an A&E visit. I haven't ..." and he hesitated, "needed to intervene," letting the omitted words be obvious, "... since my A&E rotation in med school."

"That wasn't the kind of _treatment_ I was referring to."

"I am here to take care of your medical needs," John offered, calmly. "An erection does not typically need medical attention."

"I did invite you to join me, I didn't say for what."

"I really don't think ..."

Sherlock interrupted. "Seems, actually, that you are medical and that it did get your attention." Sherlock leaned back, arched a bit to get comfortable, and there was a sultry roll of his pelvis. He made a guttural chest noise. "I think it could fall under your ... jurisdiction quite nicely."

John wasn't terribly surprised, and might have found the situation a little tempting but for the brokenness and hurt this was masking. "You know the last thing I would do is take advantage of you or do something that would ultimately ..." he stopped, Sherlock's eyes grew veiled, and then downcast. His hand stilled. "... be a bad idea."

"Even if I was asking?"

"Boundaries." John stood up, quickly securing a sachet of lubricant from his medical supplies, opened it and held it out. "At least don't get sore." Sherlock seemed surprised by John's offer, his provision, but he held out his hand. "I'll give you a few minutes." Before he stepped from the room, he tipped his head toward the nightstand. "Tissues are right there."

++

The following day was rainy and miserable, the flat chilly despite the tea that John kept suggesting to Sherlock and sipping himself. Sherlock was ... well, he was as miserable as the overcast weather. Discontentment seemed to simmer, fester, and build.

"Is there something that you would like to do? Card game?" John attempted an activity which was met by a borderline hostile glare when he glanced over. Changing approaches, and aiming for casual conversation. "If you were making a list of things to do, what would be on it?"

"Subtle."

John licked his lip, let the smile come despite Sherlock's attempt to provoke him. "Maybe I'm not trying to be."

"Of course you are."

"You realise I can't fix this. I can't make you instantly feel more like yourself."

There was a snort. And a refusal to respond, no further talking. Dinner went untouched. The evening found Sherlock more withdrawn and non-communicative to the point that John continued his own occasional sigh and Sherlock didn’t fuss about either of their unrest. There was a current of hostility underpinning the entire evening. John finally gave up but stayed close by, watching Sherlock peruse a journal without actually seeing it, abandon that for the previous day's newspaper that he ended up finally ripping in disgust. John put the telly on later that evening, which Sherlock participated in by turning his back on it, nose into the couch cushions. 

"Okay," John finally said, flipping a button on the remote to blacken the screen. "Bath."

"No."

He hesitated, trying to figure out what would best motivate Sherlock, decided to surrender the imminent battle for the sake of the war. 

“All right, you can skip it tonight, but we'll do it first thing in the morning. And in return I expect better appetite and more energy tomorrow.”  There was no response, simply a turning of Sherlock’s head further into the cushion, away from John.

“You know, Sherlock, another provider would have, long ago started not only psychotropic medications but probably a combination of medications for depression, mood-stabilising agents.”

“They did that once already. Tried to, anyway."

"And?" John prompted. When Sherlock hadn't answered, John got more specific. “How’d it go? Did you feel better?” John could almost imagine a previous treating physician hoping for some sort of progress being met with Sherlock's dissatisfaction. The silence was enough of an answer. "Not even a little, then?"

There was a long silence, a pause, and John could see the moment that Sherlock decided to speak. “I barely tolerate myself on a good day. My thought processes with mood elevating medications rendered me much less likable.”

"All right. I understand." John was in no rush, and thought Sherlock's answer was a bit of a promising sign, his insight. “Can I ask for one thing of you?”

Again, a hesitation. “It depends.” There was a long enough break that John was beginning to wonder if Sherlock had fallen asleep. “And it seems you already asking me the question is asking one thing.”

“Oh good, you’re feeling better if you’re nit-picking my syntax.”

A huffing exhale, a sigh. “Go ahead then.”

"Give me something to work with here." He restated the question that had started out the conversation: what would you like to do?

"How about my exhaled cigarette smoke?"

"No." John was not deterred or distracted. “Make an effort to do something. A visible effort. I’m not sure I even care for the moment what it is, I just want you to summon something from within yourself.” John had already looked through the list Mycroft had sent him long ago of Sherlock's favourite things, none of which at the moment seemed applicable. "What would you like to do?"

“I suppose you’re going to ax the request for a cigarette?” He hadn't turned back around to look at John. "You do owe me one. Promised, even."

"You know the conditions. Dressed. And we walk outside." John was actually grateful for the permission he'd already given, it took the power out of the request. “Surely you can do better than that.”

“I’ll consider it.”  The non-committal to the request was not surprising, but John was at least feeling somewhat positive that it was not an outright no.

 From the dark of the bedroom, later, Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Yes?" John knew he'd been summoned, that Sherlock was making sure he was paying attention.

"My violin."

"What about it?"

"It's being held as collateral, I borrowed against it, special deal with the pawnbroker's shop." John's attention had been grabbed. "Payment in full plus small fee gets it back."

"Do you have the money?"

"Mycroft does." Sherlock sounded irritated. "And you have his credit card."

"I should --" John began. "How much are we talking here?"

"Never mind. Don't bother." With a muffled huff, John could hear him flip over in the bed. There was another sigh and then stony silence. And then a flip back and some fussing, "You know, you asked me to come up with something..."

"Where is it?" John considered the aggravation, wondered if perhaps the violin would indeed help pull him from the slump he was obviously in.

"Forget it." His voice was almost a hiss.

Calmly, John spoke slowly. "I'm not going to ask you again."

The exhale was loud, followed by a full minute of aggravated silence. "New Bond Street. Tag's under the wool section of my sock index."

"Right." He hesitated. "Been meaning to ask you about that anyway."

"Not tonight." 

 ++

"Great, thanks for coming," John uttered, opening the door to admit Molly, who had agreed to swing in briefly so John could run a couple of errands, stop by his own flat for a few things, and pick up something from the bakery a few blocks away Sherlock had mumbled in his sleep, something about Paul's Doughnuts. Now that the feeding tube was out, and staying out, John was trying to keep Sherlock's appetite on the upswing. He also had Mycroft's credit card, and would stop by to see about retrieving Sherlock's violin.

"He'll probably sleep. Kind of a down day, flat." They chatted about Molly's latest class, and about the perpetual mist of the past few days weather. "He shouldn't really need anything until after I get back. Food if he wants it. Blood count yesterday morning was good. Stable."

"Good news, that."

"Progress I suppose. Text me if you need anything, yeah?"

She smiled, patted her bag where John could see a textbook she'd brought along. "Maybe just a system to help me memorise the bony facets of the ankle."

 ++

John arrived home in time to find Molly pacing nervously in the hallway, outside the closed door of the loo.

"He said he needed a minute, said he was bloated, said he needed a moment of privacy, that ... you know, to use the toilet."

There was a faint niggling of fear in John's gut. Not wanting to alarm Molly, or add to her obvious concern, he tried to reassure her. "I'm sure it's fine. Been in there long?"

"Maybe ten minutes," Molly whispered. "He seemed, I mean, to ask a person to step out for that, I thought..."

"Of course. Reasonable," John turned away, growing more uneasy. He quickly set down the violin, the bag from his flat, the shopping, knocked on the door with a tight knuckle. "Sherlock, mate, you all right in there?" There was no answer, and John exchanged a worried glance with Molly, tried the doorknob to find it locked.

"Fine, fine, good lord, leave me alone." Sherlock was speaking animatedly but it wasn't his voice, not in tone nor cadence.

_Oh no._

A few other sounds from inside the room, as if trying to walk but stumbling, and then some muttering, as if the vocal dam had broken loose.

"Unlock this please," he asked, fairly certain that Sherlock wouldn't comply, and he bent to consider the lock on the door. It was not ancient, rather solid-looking, but a simple mechanism. He removed one of the wall-hangings, found a straight, long-ish nail, pulled it out of the plaster. "This might work," he said quietly to Molly. "Here's hoping anyway."

The knob jiggled, the lock on the inside engaging with the mitred edges of the point on the nail, and rather quickly, John opened the door. To find Sherlock sitting on the edge of the tub, unsteadily, eyes glazed, nystagmus when John tipped his chin to peer closely. "Oh, shit," Sherlock managed to say, and that simple monosyllabic utterance seemed to start something. He rambled something about tobacco ash, speech pressured, his affect mildly euphoric. There was white powder on the vanity by the sink, and John brushed a fingertip through it, evaluating the texture, then turned to Sherlock.

"How many lines did you do?"

Quickly, he wiped up the countertop then washed his hands as Sherlock shrugged, evasive.

"I'm so sorry," Molly said, speech abnormally high pitched herself. "I didn't think he, I didn't mean, oh god!"

Sherlock's speech rambled along the ash topic and then demonstrated a rather bawdy mnemonic for recalling cranial nerves, told Molly that ankle bones were idiotic and boring. And then he began to get personally insulting, something about her lipstick before John interrupted him.

"Stop it," John said quietly, low, but with enough force to get Sherlock's attention. "Be nice."

"I'm so sorry," she said again to John. Then to Sherlock, she shook her head at him, "You shouldn't have done this. I trusted you!"

"Yes, well, you were easy prey." His eyes grew brighter, his face fiercely animated. "Not a challenge at all. Too easy." To the open doorway, he called out, "Bring me someone interesting!"

John felt badly for her, a mistaken judgment call that he could certainly understand. "It's okay, of course you didn't know." Her tears threatened, and she was distraught with the threat of getting much worse. "Molly, we're fine. I'll just get him back to bed. It's probably best if you go, yeah?" Her eyes were big, wet but not overflowing as she looked back at him and did find some comfort that he wasn't angry, simply addressing her calmly. "I've got this."

"If you're sure," her voice wobbled, and at John's nod, she disappeared, footsteps quickly growing quieter, the door shutting behind her.

The silence in her wake was heavy.

With a serious inquiry, John turned to Sherlock. Sherlock made his second mistake of the afternoon then, when he had the audacity to bloody smirk back at John.

"Seriously?" John growled.

Sherlock said nothing, but his lips thinned out as he fought against the smile attempting to break loose, to provoke John further.

"Where was it hidden? I searched. This room even." John shook his head, considering the room and all its hiding places. "Inside the toilet tank?"

"Inside the toilet paper spindle."

"No it wasn't, I'd looked there."

"Then I guess I'm not telling you." He looked sharply at John, animated and not-quite giddy. "For next time I get bored."

"Seems like not that long ago we were discussing the withholding of information. Remember?" Sherlock couldn't hold eye contact too long, but he attempted. "Got something you need to say to me?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"You don't seem to understand, either. This is not helping, not helpful. Dangerous." John stood, ordered Sherlock to wash his hands, blow his nose (no blood, John was glad to see, thank god), and brush his teeth. "Need the loo?"

"I want your computer."

"Tough."

"I need to do some research! My brain is finally awake, finally! No time to lose, I swear, now ..."

"Absolutely not. Your computer privileges remain revoked." John took Sherlock's arm, guiding him firmly back across the hall. He was already sweaty, both of them were for different reasons of course, and John slid his hand down over Sherlock's radial artery. Tachycardic, though not as rapid as it could have been. "Any chest pain?"

Sherlock just stared back. "I am not getting into bed. You don't understand, _I need your computer_ , while I can still _think!"_

It took come creative coercion, but within a few minutes, John had Sherlock at least laying down, a few monitors placed - temperature, pulse oximeter again - his phone open to keep an eye on the mobile app that tracked temperature - only mildly elevated so far. Eventually, Sherlock did admit that he had no chest pain, was not feeling untoward in any way. John kept a wary eye on him, blood pressure high initially, but as things began to normalise, he thought perhaps things were on the mend, that they had dodged the proverbial bullet this time.

He knew, however, that there were bigger problems than just Sherlock's intermittent use of cocaine.

He seemed to have a dangerous behavior pattern. John needed to find a cure for his boredom.

++ 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N to self: You are not perfect, and neither is your writing. Stop editing, stop over-editing, leave the commas fall where they are (mostly) all right, and let the piece fly, flaws and all! That is all, self. Onward!
> 
> +++++
> 
> And, yes Roberto Bolle is probably more delicious than lasagne.
> 
> +++++
> 
> I have a friend who has visited London, and threatens to do so regularly just to get one of the specialty pastries from Paul's. No firsthand knowledge, though.
> 
> +++++
> 
> Part of this chapter was a hair-breadth away from the chopping block... It actually still is, yet it remains where I put it, trembling, knowing that my fingers are still itching to do something with it - remove it, relocate it. It does, however, address Sherlock's frustration and John's integrity.


	11. Unraveling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter begins with the fallout of Sherlock's relapse and ends with an even more unpleasant surprise. Both of their worst nightmares perhaps?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all the flashbacks in every other chapter, this chapter reads straight through.

John phoned Mycroft later that evening, after Sherlock seemed more deeply asleep, monitors silent and stable. And still visible or audible to John.

"Ah, Dr. Watson. More happy news from the home front I presume."

"Not exactly."

"Oh, well, if you're calling about your recent financial outlay, I did take note that Sherlock's violin has been re-claimed from the pawnbrokers."

"Yes. I figured you were monitoring credit card usage."

"Seems rather annoying to have had to purchase something that the family already owned. At one time anyway."

"You'll have to settle that up with your brother."

"Yes, well, his income is lacking, of late. Was there something else?"

"Bit of a relapse, actually. Wanted to let you know."

Pregnant pause. Then a caustic repeat of John's word: "Relapse."

"I caught him high." He plunged ahead, a bit further, succinctly describing the situation, relating the brief facts, and that it had been cocaine.

He could hear a small inhale and then absolute stillness. "I see. And where were you when this occurred?" John could hear the understandable disappointment, not unlike his own of course but different. There was a curt edge to Mycroft's voice as he added, "Is that not what you have been hired to _prevent_?"

"It is an impossibility that anyone monitor someone else one hundred percent of the time." There was little emotion in John's explanation, and he reminded Mycroft: "This setting in particular, there are quite a few variables, unlike in an institution."

"Are you recommending an alternative setting?"

"Not at this point." 

"You weren't with him when this occurred."

"I personally was out of the flat, and my associate was with him. Unfortunately, he had locked himself in the bath." 

"While you were out on an _errand_?" John could almost hear the wheels turning, click together. "Oh. The violin, of course."

"It could just as easily have been me present."

"But it wasn't. This was not a coincidence, by any stretch."

"He chose this. I'll emphasise that this was not her fault. Let's not lose sight of the fact that it was Sherlock who made a poor decision today."

"Indeed." Mycroft sounded less annoyed after John's reminder, a little softer and concerned. "Was there any intervention required, medically?"

"No. He seems to be recovering. This time."

There was a faint _tsk_ sound. “This should have been exactly what you were expecting, Dr. Watson." The icy tone was back. "I warned you that he was going to do the unthinkable and challenge all of your skills. I’m disappointed that he caught you unawares.”

“Oi, I wasn’t exactly caught unawares," John began, then realised that technically, in some ways, he had. "Sometimes recovery means allowing clients to make choices. Give a person enough rope to hang themselves with, as it were."

"I see." His tone, however, very clearly indicated that he in fact, _didn't_.

"I did want, however, to let you know about the setback. And that he's all right."

“Whatever your expectations are, he will break them. Whatever you want him to do, he will not. He's been known to see through many measures and attempts at behaviour modification, and I guarantee that he will not only notice, but find a way to continue to frustrate you.” The sharpness in Mycroft's tone gave way to something softer. "To thwart your efforts."

"He is not particularly motivated toward recovery."

"Given the chance, he will always prefer to wander his way through life somewhat impaired."

John swallowed hard, steeling himself to ask a difficult question. Sidestepping where he wanted to go, he started with, "I am concerned that he will continue to find ways around my monitoring, continue to make his only mission that of getting his way."

"Ah, yes, and therein is the challenge with my brother. He is clever. So not trust him and do not underestimate him. Stronger men than you and even pairs of aides have been deceived and outwitted."

With a humbling pause, and the knowledge that failing to ask the hard question would do his patient a disservice, John plunged ahead. "Do you have any suggestions?"

The line was so quiet that for a moment, John wondered if the faint rustle was the sound of Mycroft Holmes _blinking._

"Has anything worked, or come close to being helpful?" John asked.

"Not as yet." Mycroft sounded distant and his voice was an odd whisper.

"I am curious as to what has already been tried and found ineffective. Would save me a bit of time and effort, knowing."

It was still silent on the mobile.

John cleared his throat, deciding that rendering Mycroft speechless wasn't necessarily a terrible thing. "Well, if you should come up with anything, please let me know." He was glad to be moving on from that particular request for help, feeling a modicum of accomplishment simply in the asking of the question. "In the meantime, I find myself needing a few additional supplies. You should have already received an email. Ta."

++

The video monitoring equipment John had requested was quickly delivered. It was small, unobtrusive, and allowed John to visualise the bedroom from the kitchen or sitting room. The small camera was easy to place, and he didn't think Sherlock noticed. The model he'd requested was strictly closed loop with varying IP addresses, and was intentionally not connected to any wireless internet. John made sure that he could manually reset it and change the security codes, that it would be _Mycroft-proof_. The second camera on the circuit ended up in the only discreet location he could place it in the bathroom, where neither the toilet nor the shower was actually visible, but only the sink, shower rod, and cabinet. One of his greatest fears, now that he knew Sherlock was given to this risky behaviour, was that his health and safety would somehow be compromised. Hence the need for the cameras.

As much as he hated needing to add that type of surveillance, he didn't trust his patient, and was concerned that he would try it again.

++

"So, do you care to explain yourself?" John asked, pulling over the chair toward the foot of the bed. His tone of voice, arms crossed in front of himself, and the single raise of an eyebrow conveyed exactly what he was talking about.

"Seemed the thing to do."

"Stupid thing."

"Helps me think. Quiets the noise in my brain."

"There's no science behind those statements. As you are probably well aware, cocaine is not a brain friendly substance." With annoyed disbelief, Sherlock looked on at John. "It blocks the effects of dopamine, and can give you a very profound low feeling afterward."

"It helps me. You should have let me continue my research before it wore off."

"What research, exactly, are you prattling on about?" John spread his arms wide, a request. "Please, do tell. What are you currently working on?" When Sherlock broke eye contact and looked away, John tapped the edge of the bedframe to get his attention. "I've seen no evidence of any projects you have going."

"Well, I'm just getting started. I have these _ideas_..." He had the gall to actually look even more annoyed that John hadn't condoned, allowed, and supported his false claims. "My brain is different, and I needed it, but instead --" His mouth closed tightly mid-sentence, lips pursed, and then he set his jaw, refusing to continue.

"Are the kind of little stunts you pulled before you came to where you are now, this place, here, under my care? Finding ways to continue using, that drove your previous care providers around the bend?”

"What do you mean?"

"Using while in rehab, wasn't it?" John paused, waiting for him to nod. "Saying the right things to get yourself released but having no insight to what you're doing. Trying to see what you can get away with, working the system. Non-compliance."

"It's like you've just this moment met me for the first time." Arrogant and emboldened, he held out a hand as it to shake John's in greeting. "Name's Sherlock Holmes."

John let his eyes glance down to the outstretched hand, making no move to grasp it, and with a serious expression, looked back at Sherlock. "So is it the thrill of trying to get away with it?" There was a defiant look in Sherlock's eyes as he smirked back at John. "Or are you actually trying to harm yourself?"

"I was never in danger."

"Actually, it's exactly that kind of situation that can be quite dangerous. Deadly. When you've been clean for a span of time, and then use again, it can quite easily turn deadly. Bad shit can happen." John chose his words intentionally, but Sherlock didn't particularly respond to the crassness. "Your body has grown unaccustomed to the substance, or the amount, or both." John did not shy away from a hard conversation, opted to ask one final question of Sherlock. "Does your life mean so little to you that you would risk it like this?"

"I don't have a death wish."

"Then start acting like it." He stood, knowing there was an edge to his voice and thinking that perhaps it was time his patient heard him speak his mind. "Breakfast will be --"

"It's after twelve."

"Breakfast," John continued with quiet force, "in a couple of minutes. I expect you to join me in the kitchen." John had absolutely learned to minimise the chances Sherlock had to find a loophole, a technicality, a hole in something John had said. Clarity and completeness, then, whenever possible. "And to eat."

"Yesterday you brought it in here."

"Yeah, well, holiday's over. Meals are all going to be served and consumed in the kitchen or sitting room from now on."

"I'm exhausted. Too tired to even think about walking all the way out there."

"Then it might be a long crawl." John looked at the bed, then considered the length of the room to the doorway and down the hall toward the kitchen. "Better get started."

"You can't possibly be serious."

"You can't possibly think I'm not."

"Then I'm not eating. Tired. And staying here."

++

He fired up the teakettle, set some potatoes to finish frying on the hob, the sounds of this late breakfast that he knew would carry down the hall. He put on some music as he worked. From out at the kitchen table, John watched the camera feed, seeing Sherlock wide awake, laying in bed, his foot tapping, eyes restless, muscle tone anything but restful. The sheets were thrown back, and John watched in amazement as Sherlock got out of bed and moved over to John's cot, searching under his pillow, then started rummaging into one of the boxes of supplies. John toed off his shoes so that on stockinged feet, he could move slowly and undetected to the doorway, where he stood a moment, watching, before speaking.

"Looking for these maybe?" he asked, holding the bag of Paul's doughnuts. "Or something else that doesn't belong to you?"

Sherlock froze, in the bent position he'd been in when John had caught him, started speaking. The sounds from the kitchen were very muted but enough, apparently, that Sherlock had been completely unaware John was on to him.

"I asked you a question."

Slowly, Sherlock stood to full height again, turning to meet John's somewhat amused, somewhat aggressive question. He held John's gaze for a moment, obviously in thought, saw John's lack of shoes. The smirk was unstoppable, Sherlock having apparently connected a few details. "Where is it?" he asked back.

"Where is what?"

"Camera, obviously." His eyes roved the shelf, the corners of the bedroom, the headboard, seeking and searching. He did not see to be able to locate it. "Makes no difference, I will find it eventually." With sharp pale eyes, he watched John, probably hoping that John's gaze would flick to where it sat, the small, vague, unobtrusive device that was sort of hidden in plain sight where John had placed it earlier.

"The price you pay for being unable to be trusted."

"Loo too?"

"Remind me again where you were, just yesterday, when you did those lines of coke?" Sherlock blinked, and John very calmly continued. "So what do you think?"  

"Perverse, actually, is what I think."

"Fine by me," John said, knowing that while there were indeed cameras there, their positioning in the room was the least invasive as it could be. "Behave and I won't need them. Now come on," he said, calmly. "Breakfast is almost ready."

"No th--"

"Get out here, Sherlock, for breakfast. Change of plans, it just became compulsory. Obviously you're not too tired as you claimed." Had Sherlock been a young lad, John imagined that there might have been a foot-stomping tantrum. "Don't test me on the consequences. I don't think you'll enjoy that."

All huff, no action.

"Plus, I will gleefully eat all these doughnuts if you take too long." The flicker over Sherlock's face did in fact convey to John that he was somewhat interested in them. As extra motivation, John opened the bag, inhaled with obvious enjoyment. And he wandered back to the kitchen, hopeful that Sherlock would eventually follow. The bag was still closed and sealed when Sherlock joined him, dressing gown hanging loose and untied. He glared at the bag and at John, flopping into the chair and being completely immersed in a rather sulking disposition.

"Good choice," John commended, looking to affirm the behaviour without giving it undue praise. Plus, he was absolutely fine with Sherlock in a strop. "So, your tea's grown a bit cold. Microwave's that direction," he said casually.

++

John was pacing as he contemplated his next steps, taking a few moments with his tea by the window, moving to the kitchen at times, addressing little tasks or pausing to intently study something he hadn't seen before. The flat was a veritable wealth of the odd collectible - a rare edition book, a skull (which he wiped clean of dust and set on the mantle), a harpoon, a piece of sea glass. He’d helped Sherlock to the couch, where he’d lain without moving much and certainly without any energy while John worked out his unease, his strategy.

“Just stop.” Sherlock had taken the sulky strop to actual grousing.

"Stop what exactly?"

"Wearing a bloody path in the floor." John hadn't actually realised he'd been doing it, stopped where he stood, in Sherlock's line of vision.

“I want to try something.”

"No."

"I think you might like it."

Sherlock pasted on a fake grin. “By all means, I'm sure I have another stash here somewhere in my flat. I'll demonstrate my technique for you."

"Thank you no, and stash - only one?"

"Of course I'm not answering that, but I’ve been hoping for this very moment –-”

"The consequences of you using again will be quite severe." Sherlock, from his recline on the couch, rolled his eyes at John's promise. "I'm not threatening you with anything specific, but it would seem to me that this particular setting" and John gestured at the room, the flat, speaking slowly so that Sherlock would have no doubt to his meaning, "might be too lenient, too much freedom," and John stopped again for emphasis, "too many choices, you see." He did not want to make any idle statements so he waited until Sherlock looked at him, and then he continued, "if there were to be another relapse."

The silence in the flat lingered, a heavy mist, the possibility of an unwanted storm brewing.

"Do you understand what I'm saying to you?" Keeping his tone what he hoped was gentle but serious, John dropped slowly into the chair next to the couch, laid a hand on Sherlock's elbow. "And what I'm not saying?" One quick nod, and Sherlock rapidly broke eye contact and looked away. "Let's try not to have to do anything that drastic, shall we? It's entirely up to you." Without forcing a response, John took a deep breath, changed directions of the conversation. "So I've given it some thought, looking for something other than chemicals to occupy your mind.”

He picked up a book he’d chosen for this very reason, not wanting mindless television programming or even simply music, but something more interactive, something meaningful, something a little more personal.

“Thought I’d start a new book, something highly recommended, I haven’t read it yet either.  Figured we’ve got time while you recover. And I don’t sit around doing nothing all that well, mind, either. So at least this feels somewhat productive.”

He looked incredulous, shocked. "You want to _read_ to me."

"You told me once that you'd enjoyed it."

"When I was six."

"Then suggest something else." Steadily, John looked back at him pointedly, patiently. "Well?"

"Yesterday, you retrieved my --" _violin._ Sherlock's eyes flicked over to where the music stand was, a small assortment of sheet music, where the rosin lay on the shelf, and seemed puzzled where John might have placed the violin. The violin that had, by design, removed John from the flat so that Sherlock could take advantage of Molly. He pressed up on his elbow to survey the rest of the room, searching for it and coming up empty.

John knew, of course, and kept the satisfied look off his face. "Absolutely not."

"But it's --" _mine._

"-- a privilege, is what it is." Sherlock seemed legitimately surprised, shocked. John wondered again, definitely not for the first time, how many people had actually told the bloke 'no' up until now. "You have to earn that."

"I don't believe that's --" _fair._

"Tough." He tapped the book again that he was still holding. "So, based on what you had told me quite a while ago, that you had a --"

"You are not my nanny from my childhood."

"Seems that's perhaps what you need, here. Someone to make sure you eat, keep you out of trouble, rub your head maybe," and with that Sherlock's cheeks coloured slightly and John grinned just a little inwardly at his self-consciousness about it, "micromanage your day. Help you to behave yourself."

"Seems you're doing a splendid job of that," he muttered.

John felt the bristle start at his criticism but stayed the course, brought the conversation back to topic. "The book is --"

"Not interested." He'd tossed a gaze around the room once more, obviously still violin-hunting, then gave up, annoyed but pretending to relax into the couch with displeasure.

"It's just light reading, not terribly complicated plot but apparently engaging. Nice length, couple hours." Sherlock's jaw came out again, stubbornness personified. John responded in kind. "Well, anyway, I'm reading it, out loud, so you might as well listen, make the most of it."

“Dear lord, please, at least tell me you have chosen well.” Sherlock was at least still paying attention enough to crane his neck in an attempt to see the title.

“Your brother said Treasure Island was a favourite of yours as a boy. I considered it, but I wanted to start with something a bit shorter. It’s called The Graveyard Book, by Neil Gaiman. Thought perhaps we would try it.” 

“I will hurt you if you get too dramatic or if you attempt to use outrageous voice characterisations.” For all his negativity, Sherlock seemed rather impassioned as he fussed at John.

"Feeling better, are we? The threats are just rolling off your tongue today." John opened the book, flipping through a few of the opening pages.

Sherlock wasn't quite done. "You threatened me too, if you'll recall, with something unacceptable. Untenable." An eye narrowed, clearly Sherlock had heard the threat of the return to an inpatient situation and wasn't too thrilled by it. _Good_. There was a snort, then, as he moved on to a less important topic. "And, worse, you threatened to eat all the pastries." Ah yes, John was pleased to see the feistiness and the verbal sparring making an appearance.

Winking, John simply answered, "Yet I seemed to save them all for you. You're welcome, by the way. Still have glaze on your chin." He settled back into the chair across from the couch, the book finally open to the first page of text. "Now, there are some illustrations, and if you're quiet and good, I'll be sure to show them --"

"Oh god, please, just shoot me now." He did, however, quiet down as John chuckled merrily, and began to read.

John had finished most of the first chapter, glancing over fairly regularly to see Sherlock's interest and gauge his reactions. His voice was just beginning to tire, and rather than do too much in one sitting, he flipped forward a page or two, checking length. After showing one of the more clever illustrations mostly just to prove that he would (and affirm Sherlock's good behaviour), when he looked over to find Sherlock still awake and paying attention, he gave it a few more paragraphs and sighed. "That's good for today, I think. This is a good stopping point anyway."

"Thank god, the mindlessness was nearly putting me to sleep," he whined, but John wasn't fooled. He'd been moderately engaged and listening. The reviews and recommendations he'd read when selecting this particular book were spot on - reading level for a young adult but interesting enough to keep a grown-up's attention. And suitable for reading to an audience.

"I'm fixing tea, want some?"

Though Sherlock agreed, he'd fallen asleep by the time John set the cup down next to where he reclined on the couch, a blanket pulled up around his neck again. John relished the faint stirrings of victory within. Sherlock had fallen asleep with the slightest smile on his face. But even more cause for celebration was something else John noticed. The book had been moved from where John'd set it, and Sherlock had read another few pages, and moved the bookmark.

Maybe. Just maybe.

While John had a few moments peace, he cleaned up around the flat and managed to again peruse the email Mycroft had sent him so long ago, the list of what types of things Sherlock liked and enjoyed. It was probably time to step it up again, keep Sherlock's head in the game.

++

"So," John said just a bit later the next morning, after what had ended up being a restless night. While neither of them talked, John knew Sherlock had not slept well, having been kept awake himself by the sighing, tossing, turning. He'd showered quickly, dressed, and had knocked off some of his daily email tasks, documentation, and a bit of pleasure reading as Sherlock did finally doze. When Sherlock seemed to be more awake, still laying in bed but clearly not getting back to sleep, John decided it was time to get moving. "Breakfast. And then a shower. You're getting dressed."

"Why bother. There's no point."

"Ah, but there is."

"I have no strength." This was delivered as statement of fact. "And even less interest."

"And how do you propose to regain your strength if you simply sit around and do nothing?"

"It matters not." 

"Most people would say it doesn't matter. Or more likely, they would say I don't give a shit."

One eye opened briefly to express Sherlock's dissatisfaction with John's commentary on his use of language.

"Your posh boarding school is showing, is all." He kept the comment light, adding, "I would have gotten beat up for saying that at my school."

"I don't give a shit." The eye closed, and he rolled over, turning his head further into the pillow and away from John, but there was definitely a smirk. A solid one at that.

John couldn't help the small snicker as Sherlock attempted the retort, it just sounded foreign with his diction and tone. "Better, I suppose. But it is time to get up, if nothing else, being more active and awake during day hours should have an effect on your sleep quality." Sherlock seemed disinclined to listen, let alone move. John grabbed the edge of the duvet, tugged it down a few inches to expose Sherlock's shoulder, let the cool air reach him to help wake him up.

Sherlock's hand grabbed at the top edge, holding it, preventing John from dragging it down further. "You're a cruel man with no mercy."

"I'll even give you the choice of shower first, or breakfast first, your call."

"Wait. _Shower_?" His head had angled to the side as he considered John's word. "Instead of a bath."

"I was beginning to think you were going to miss that word, again." It had been intentional choosing, both times. "Think you're up for it?"

An eye opened again, looking at John as if to assess his seriousness, his intent. "You're not getting in with me, are you?"

"Wasn't planning on it, no. And I'd prefer not to have need of a water rescue this early in the day."

"Then I'll _shower_ first."

"I do suggest making it a relatively quick one. It does tend to expend a lot of energy."

Several minutes later, the steam was rising behind the shower curtain and Sherlock was arguing that John didn't need to stay in the bathroom with him, that he wasn't likely to drown for gods sake. Chuckling to himself, John did leave the bath for a few minutes to gather Sherlock a change of clothing.

"You doing all right?" he asked upon his return.

"I don't know. Been unmonitored for approximately forty-five seconds, might have gotten into trouble."

"You know what I meant. But do you want help with your hair?"

The answer that came back was an unconvincing no, but John could hear that Sherlock's movements were slower, that he was holding on to the grab bar and breathing heavily.

"I'll give you a quick hand," John said, and then heard the entendre and quickly amended, "with the shampoo." He flipped the water off the shower head to the faucet and flicked the drain shut. "Have a seat."

They'd developed a fairly smooth system of when to tip, when to scrub, lather, and rinse. In short order, a towel was wrapped about his trim waist and Sherlock was seated on the closed toilet lid. Another towel was about his shoulders, and he was leaning his head back against the wall.

"It's surprising how exhausting a shower is, honestly," John said, recalling after his injury when he'd needed more than a little assistance to bathe, let alone get in the shower. "But you'll get your strength back." He tugged the towel up around Sherlock's hair, dried as best he could given Sherlock's lack of strength to even hold up his head, and let Sherlock simply sit for a few minutes.

Eventually, Sherlock seemed to revive and was ready to go again, and John stepped back to get a good view of Sherlock's reaction when he noticed.

And notice, he did, coming up short. He stared. And thankfully, did continue to breathe.

"What is this?"

"Your clothes."

"I can see that, of course. Obvious." He was grousing about, and stood up as he reached an arm out for the items John had brought. From within the depths of Sherlock's closet, he'd grabbed a few pieces of attire that had obviously been somewhat recently worn, off some of the hangers that were front and center. A button front dress shirt in pale gray. A bespoke pair of well-cut trousers. Black wool socks from the index. A soft, silky vest from the chest of drawers, fabric that called, a siren song. John had run his fingers over it, savouring the rather incredible soft texture, imagining how good a vest like that would feel on whomever was wearing it. Or touching it, John had needed a mental shake, back to the task at hand. Sherlock hesitated, though his fingers came out lovingly to touch the shirt's placket and buttons. "Why?"

John didn't choose to answer right away, he was so enthralled by the expressions on Sherlock's face, the crinkles at the eye, the smile, the sparkle, the clearly pleasant associations. Surprising Sherlock was quite a delight. "I have it on some authority that you appreciate wearing fine, well-fitting clothes. And I know you haven't done so for a while now." Neither of them spoke the name of Sherlock's brother, but both did recall that Mycroft had indeed weeks ago supplied John with some information as to Sherlock's likes. "I think it's high time to remedy that." His statement was slow, thoughtful, and triggered a kind, appreciative smile on Sherlock's face.

Mycroft's list had given the hint that Sherlock did fully enjoy his creature comforts. Clean hair and selected products. Well cared for hands. Quality dress clothing. A few others that John looked forward to testing out.

By the time the shirt was ready to be buttoned, Sherlock's fingers were shaking and tired and he was leaning hard against the wall. Swatting his fingers away good naturedly, John finished the buttons, rolled up the sleeves, and gestured toward the sitting room. The body, despite the lack of energy and the subsequent collapsing onto the couch, looked much different in this style of menswear. Long legs seemed longer and more fit, though the trouser waist was still loose from weight and muscle loss. The shirt hugged nicely across the shoulder, the buttons snug and secure across the pectorals. Forearms also seemed more fit and trim under the sleeve cuff rolls. The socks over long feet and bony ankles clung too, seemed healthier than white socks or slippers. John had pictured it, but actually seeing it had a whole different effect.

There was a confidence, a charisma that seemed to hover there, to be part of him now. It had somehow been put on along with the clothing. The quality of the fabric along with the tailoring gave the impression of both comfort and style, of being quietly understated. Of financial means. John had grown used to seeing lounge pants or pyjamas and dressing gown. The trousers were just pleasing and flattering in all the right places.

Except that the man wearing them was moaning slightly on the sofa, quietly but clearly claiming that he had been run over by a truck and could someone please notify the authorities.

John couldn't stop the chuckle. "I hear you, however, notifying the authorities as you have requested, is particularly likely to bring your brother over here." Deciding that Mycroft might actually be useful as a point of allegiance, John and Sherlock against Mycroft, he made sure to add, "And I should tell you that he's not especially pleased with either one of us right now."

"I can imagine," Sherlock gave John a small sympathetic nod, "Ugh."

"Exactly. At least eat something first, before we have to deal with him." From the kitchen table, John produced a banana and granola bar, handed both over, which were quite efficiently consumed. A few sips of water without being asked, even, and John wasn't sure if he should credit the shower or the clothing, but was grateful just the same. John had already perused the morning headlines on his laptop, mentioned that maybe later they would discuss the meal options for the next few days, maybe order something in for dinner, and he was mid-sentence, ready to ask if he was ready for another chapter from their book, when he noticed that Sherlock had already fallen asleep. His face was still in repose, his breathing deep and even, young-appearing, relaxed. His bowed lips were slightly apart, the faintest hint of teeth showing. Though he was still on the pale end of the skin spectrum, John thought that his colour was much improved from when they'd first met those weeks ago.

"Guess the book can wait," he whispered, mildly disappointed. The plot had introduced a new twist and he was curious himself.

In his fatigue, Sherlock had drawn the blanket up over him, probably slightly chilled from the shower, and in doing so, his wrists had been wrapped together and caught underneath the edge of the union jack pillow. Carefully, so as not to disturb him, John eased the edge of the blanket out from around his wrists, remembering Sherlock's history, of the medical treatment, of the way he'd recalled being restrained. A frown crossed his face as he recalled Sherlock's words about the sexual partner he'd had, who had probably unwittingly but definitely unknowingly held his wrists together. The protectiveness, the fondness John was feeling had him quite concerned that, upon awakening, Sherlock might feel held, bound, restricted. The blanket caught just a little under his forearm, and in tugging it completely free, John could feel the heat emanating off Sherlock's body as he ensured that there was nothing holding him, no reason to panic, no unpleasant associations or triggers. There was just the faintest amount of warmth in his chest as he did so, which suffused even a little further when Sherlock turned his head, his nose coming close to John's arm and he inhaled, and smiled.

++ 

The news anchor droned on and on about something pointless and irrelevant, the words taking up space and poorly chosen, Sherlock was saying and then he recommended that they fire their teleprompt writers. As had become their routine, he was dressed, had eaten, and they caught a few minutes of the mid-day news report.

"I'll be right back. Need anything from the bedroom?" he asked.

Upon his return, Sherlock was still fussing about the news content and delivery, but stopped, halted abruptly, mid-rant, when John set a pair of Italian leather shoes down in front of Sherlock.

"No."

"What do you mean, no?" John asked with something of a grin, choosing yet again to be at least tolerant of Sherlock's predictable belligerence.

"Whatever it is, I am quite sure I don't want to do it."

"Why would you say that?"

"Because you've probably lined up a testimonial appointment at Mrs. Hudson's, or something godawful at the _library_ or some support group for addicts--"

_Clunk._

For whatever else John was discovering about Sherlock, he absolutely _loved_ getting him to shut up when he was animatedly fussing. Which he did a lot. That abrupt cessation of Sherlock on a rant was a noteworthy, satisfying accomplishment.

This time, there was a lull, a silence, and then a heartfelt gasp when he could find his words again. _"Oh, John."_

In front of him, onto the coffee table, Sherlock was staring at what John had also just set down by the shoes. Two items, released from John's capable hand, had settled onto the table with a click and a crinkle.

A pack of cigarettes and a lighter. "Really?" he gasped again.

"It's frightening that you act as if this is the best gift you've ever seen." John was shaking his head, shoulders shaking with mirth as he laughed. "Honestly and truly. _Frightening_."

With something resembling great ceremony, with no prompting or encouragement, Sherlock sat up. His shoes slipped on, deftly tied with a minimum of flair. He sat a moment as John gestured, reaching without words for Sherlock's left arm, his index finger beckoning. Slowly, Sherlock let his arm come out for John to grasp. With two confident hands, John flipped Sherlock's arm over, slowly and gently, sliding his sleeve upward to expose the area near his elbow. The nicoderm patch rested there, waiting. Both of them watched as John lifted the edge of the adhesive, began to peel back the previous day's dose.

It was a laughable reverence, John knew, that Sherlock stood, eyes wide, stunned into quiet cooperation. "Really?" he asked John again, a hushed whisper, still disbelieving.

"I promised you. Did you think I wasn't going to come through on that?" Sherlock's look of chagrin answered that. "Well, shame on you for thinking that. You're ready."

"My first trip out of this flat in a long time."

"Let's do this."

"Get it over with, you mean?"

"Something like that, yes."

John slid his own jacket on, pocketed the lighter and pack, then held up Sherlock's Belstaff for him to slide into. With a minimum of movement once their coats were on, John opened the door at the top of the steps, where they both stood, looking down.

"Worried?"

"Not about going down. Energy to get back up."

"You don't remember being carried up them, do you."

"No."

"You don't have to do this, you know. You can back out of the deal."

"Not on your life."

John was encouraging. "You can absolutely do this. You're ready. And they're just steps, you know." At Sherlock's skeptical pout, John continued. "Worst case scenario, I'll toss you over my shoulder, army carry you back up."

"With your injury?" Sherlock said quickly. "Are you sure you're able?"

It caught John up short. He tried to recall if Sherlock had seen him shirtless, or if they'd talked about it (knowing full well they hadn't), or what could possibly have given that away. He knew for a fact that he usually turned away when quickly dressing or changing shirts in Sherlock's presence. "How did you know?"

"I didn't, not completely, until you just now confirmed it. But it fits, the army, the --" and they exchanged looks again, John surprised and Sherlock smug. "Oh please, of course you're military. You almost have it tattooed across your face. It explains your forced retirement, your current vocation." Sherlock looked bored at the need to explain himself. "Your range of motion is a bit more limited on the left side, dominant arm, probably a broken rib or two. Shot?" he asked, pausing long enough to take in John's nod. "Not a usual role for army surgeon, in the line of fire. Unusual assignment then."

John's mouth was dry, and throat tight. "That's uh.... brilliant." Sharing that he was impressed seemed to come out before thinking about it. "And yes, something like that." He didn't particularly want to get into it immediately, refocused them to the present. "Be quite assured that I can still lift you if necessary."

"It won't be," and with that his brow wrinkled again in concern, "hopefully."

"Don't get used to this. This is a one-off. The only time I accompany you for a smoke. Perhaps consider this your very last one, ever." Sherlock almost laughed at the concept, and John could only shake his head at the notion that he had no intention of making that consideration true. "Congratulations on quitting."

"I think not."

"I still don't particularly approve, you know. You don't have to do this."

"Perish that thought!" he jested back, and seemed a bit more determined. "You promised."

"And here we are."

Their destination was seventeen steps and a short distance away to a bench not far down the street. It ended up being almost anticlimactic in John's opinion, the cigarette between Sherlock's lips, the flick of the lighter, the inhale, the light-up. It was a few inhales, exhales, and Sherlock crossing an ankle over his knee as he imposed his presence on the bench, on the street, the pedestrians, the small section of street block he'd taken up a commanding ownership of. The Belstaff, unbuttoned, draped flatteringly also with a dominance befitting its well-dressed owner. John had chosen not to sit down, but ambled about along the kerb a bit, biding his time, watching, waiting. Surveying the area, keeping a close eye on their surroundings, and trying to be nonchalant about staying out of the range of the second hand smoke.

In the end, Sherlock extinguished the cigarette after only smoking perhaps a bit more than half of it. John received it carefully, binned it, and then joined Sherlock on the bench. "You know, it says a lot about a person who can blow smoke rings and do the little tricks you do, as if you weren't even concentrating on it."

"Oh?" Sherlock quipped back, watching John and returning the smile. "What does it say about me?"

"That you were mocked when you first started to smoke. That you felt compelled to practice until it became second nature. That you're most certainly a perfectionist with extremely high, almost unattainable standards. That you are a creature susceptible to habit. To addiction. Which seems an obvious statement, given where we are, you and I."

"If I advised you that one of those statements was a lie, would you know immediately which one was untrue?"

"None of them are false, I don't think," John said, having taken a casual glance around, then meeting Sherlock's gaze directly. A few vehicles went by, loudly, a horn from down the street, a yell of a boy chasing a dog, conversations of passers-by. "Observations, are all. They're not set in stone, as such. If you would feel better, you can certainly tell me which one you would like not to be true."

There was a small, lopsided smile, Sherlock's eyes crinkling as he did so. "No, they're kind of spot on."

Without the necessity of a spoken word, they stood up again, with Sherlock leading the way back to their door. After returning to the sitting room, John's mobile buzzed with an incoming text, which he read, laughed at, and then promptly showed Sherlock.

It was from Mycroft, and included a grainy CCTV camera shot of them from outside the flat, the cigarette visible, both of them depicted in the photo as pleasantly engrossed in conversation. Accompanying the photo was one word:  **Really?**

It was as John had suspected earlier, that the two of them on the same team as it were, with Mycroft opposing, was somewhat unifying, and both laughed again. Unfortunately for Sherlock, he couldn't stop the exertional, accompanying cough that came with it, and John couldn't refrain from commenting on the poor health habit of smoking. At Sherlock's glare, he finally held up a hand. "All right, enough said about it."

"Oh, I fully expect you'll continue to work it into conversation from time to time." There as a throat clearing as an attempt to suppress the cough that wanted to let loose. "Not a doubt."

"I'll make an attempt to quit if you do likewise."

He left that unanswered, and apparently decided to turn tables. "So, your injury. A result of ... what was it Mycroft let slip, something about an incident report?" Though John wanted to deny it, he knew Sherlock had heard them. "Or misconduct, wasn't it?"

"Indirectly, I suppose." He answered slowly, then realised he should have said nothing.

Because Sherlock continued. "Yours?"

Sherlock's eyes bored into John's, watching for anything, signs of stress, something that would give anything away about what had happened. John was having no parts of it, and returned the stare, impassively for a few moments, wordless, stoic. He'd grown quite skilled, given his current profession, at keeping everything on the outside business as usual. Show nothing.

Sherlock's gaze was laser sharp, watching every nuance of John's behaviour. "You don't want to talk about it."

"Not even this much."

"As a matter of curiosity, do you have full and complete recall of your injury, being shot?"

John thought about maintaining radio silence about it, but Sherlock's tone was softly curious and the topic less direct. "Vividly."

"Awful to remember?"

"Yes." Unwanted, the ribs, the shoulder, gave a twinge of pain memory, a faint reminder. John remembered feeling the sharpness, the sting, the burn of muscle, flesh, and lung tissues being damaged, and the hissed words of his: _oh shit!_ John held Sherlock's gaze, their eyes communicating much, and John returned the volley of Sherlock's question. "Though not remembering something isn't much better, is it?"

"No, it's not."

The energy in the room, sapped, gone, the mood hushed. John found another movie they hadn't watched together yet, a documentary on beekeeping that he'd found stashed in a pile near the disc player. Though it didn't interest him, he thought Sherlock might have apparently at one time enjoyed it. As the opening credits rolled, John glanced over to find Sherlock laying on his back, eyes half mast, mostly asleep. "You all right?" he asked low.

There was an answering nod, just once, and Sherlock glanced over knowing John was studying him. "By the way, thanks for ..."

John smiled at the acknowledgement, the expression of gratitude, the appreciation. And equally, for changing the subject. "You're welcome." Behind them, the movie played for an audience that paid very little attention.

++

John's mind had obviously been reminded of previous unpleasantness, and his dreams that night were a spiraling mixture of the young boy calling out and the sergeant laughing as he pulled the trigger, hitting the boy before leveling the rifle at John. There was heat and sand and London fog and cigarette smoke - all hostile, all attacking, all out to get him. In the dream, he wanted to run away, wanted to attack, was frozen in place. One of his unit members called out to him, needing aid, calling, calling, _calling._

"John. John!" The voice was Sherlock's and accompanied by a nudging kick, a sharp and emphatic jostle of the frame of the cot on which he lay.

Consciousness returned, a lightswitch, a horrified realisation, a quick snippet of thankfulness that Sherlock knew enough not to touch, to shake, to get too close to someone having a nightmare.

Skin hot and sweaty, heart racing, throat dry, remnants of fear still prickling in John's gut, he sat bolt upright in the dark room. "What?" Reality returned quickly, suddenly, the twinge of embarrassment of the nightmare as he could hear Sherlock moving a few feet away, speaking his name. Leaning back into the pillow, he tried to steady his breathing. The faint outline of Sherlock sitting on the edge of the bed was all he could make out in the low-lit bedroom. "Are you all right?" he asked, the caretaking role surfacing immediately.

"Hardly think that's the right question."

"I'm sorry that I woke you," he said quietly. The dreams didn't occur often, and he hadn't had one in a long time. His shoulder somehow was throbbing, the pain sharp and swollen-feeling on the inside of his joint, the aching where the ribs had long ago healed revisiting him as well. The sound in his ears from the rapid beat of his pulse and the partially-remembered stress of the dream was loud, relentless. "I'll just, uh," he began to swing his feet out of bed, knowing sleep was now going to be particularly evasive until his body and mind calmed themselves down. "I don't want to keep you awake."

"Leaving the room is not necessary."

"I know that," John said, snippier than he meant to be, "sorry."

"Stop bloody apologising."

Staying where he was, sitting, breathing slowly, counting the inhale, counting the exhale, he reminded himself that this was all right, normal, expected. The silence in the room was not uncomfortable, and John could feel himself starting to unwind. The biofeedback techniques he'd learned in med school and then applied after discharge from the military were still quite useful, and his awareness of both breathing and muscular tone was helpful as he perched there. Sherlock spoke again, though, and he was so engrossed in his own mind that he didn't hear the words clearly.

"What was that, again?" Just in time, he swallowed the word 'sorry' before it was spoken. "I missed what you said."

"I said," Sherlock told him, "that if you wanted, we could go a little farther in the book."

Sigh, heart rate lowering another few beats per minute. Inhale, pause, exhale. "I'm not sure I'm up to reading just now."

"I could read, this time."

The offer, the self-lessness of Sherlock's suggestion, John knew was quite atypical, quite unusual, quite special. It was also, he knew, not to be ignored or declined. "That sounds," and he cleared his throat, "like a nice idea. I'll get it."

His feet were quiet as he padded out to the living room, snatched the book, and returned to the bedroom, stopping first at the loo. When he realised what was different in the bedroom, his steps slowed to a halt, and he could only stare a moment, trying to decide the best reaction.

Sherlock had slid to the other side of the bed, the light on the nightstand was on, and John's pillow had been brought to the empty spot of Sherlock's bed. It was an obvious invitation, one that made sense on one level, and was cause for mild alarm on the other. A long arm with elegant fingers appeared, reaching toward the book John was holding. "All right," he said, quiet and low, but took up his own blanket from his cot before joining Sherlock.

Sherlock's voice was perfectly suited, his pacing and rhythm absolutely lovely as he flipped to the bookmark and started to read. His cadence, pronunciations, and inflections were easy listening, and John found himself following along with his eyes as well while Sherlock read. The story brought them back, yet again, to the graveyard and the crypt and the chase scene. One of the pictures was quite cleverly done, and Sherlock stared at it for a longer pause, his fingers holding the page in mid-turn as he then pointed.

"That's not what I pictured the room looking like. Not at all."

"Oh?" John hadn't given it much thought, his usual reading habits were just to mostly accept things at face value and move on. Apparently not Sherlock.

"Of course not. The dialogue doesn't have any mention of an echo in the room, so all this stone doesn't make sense. It should be more earthy, dirt, which would absorb some of the sounds. Plus, Bod doesn't even ..." and he explained why the writer had used such specific description about the murderer and why the chapel illustration would have been better served in a different presentation. "And then the Honour Guard, of course, has to do with ..." John listened with half an ear, hearing what Sherlock was saying on one side, but thunderstruck on another, that he was not only reading, but analysing and applying the plot.

Sherlock had paused, and was obviously awaiting a reply. "You realise," John said, slowly, "that this is fiction. It's a tall tale."

"You realise," Sherlock levered back at him, "that quality writing such as this is meant for more than entertainment. The symbolism is remarkable."

"If you say so. Mostly for me, pleasure reading is just that - mindless escape from reality. Entertainment."

Sherlock continued to read, if a bit slower than previously. Both of them seemed a bit more pensive, more introspective, though. While John was pondering the applicable symbolism of the book to their current situation (if there was a parallel, he didn't think so but wasn't sure) while Sherlock was considering that the story just might be, as John said, purely for entertainment. He doubted it.

++

The following evening, Sherlock was complaining of a headache and was grouchy. John couldn't help but wonder at what he'd already set in motion with Mycroft, hoping for the best. Mycroft's list, the email, the things John had requested that Sherlock enjoyed, had included the fact that Sherlock enjoyed chemistry. A few texts had gone back and forth as John's plan had solidified and taken shape.

**Sherlock said something about an interest in doing some research? John**

**He's always been fascinated with microscopic examination of various substances. What about it?**

**Can you bring something for him?**

**Such as?**

**Your email about his likes mentioned the sciences. Microscope perhaps?**

**I believe I can get my hands on some spare lab equipment.**

**Something to occupy him**

**He would be immediately dissatisfied with any commercially prepared set.**

**Then put together a custom one.**

**Are you quite sure?**

John couldn't help chuckling, was glad Sherlock was resting.

**I'm not asking you to provide him the means to build a bomb. John**

He hit send as another thought struck him.

**Actually, I am asking you NOT to provide him with the means to build a bomb. Just for some basic experimentation, something he would find enjoyable, to keep his mind busy. John**

**Don't say I didn't warn you. MH**

**Make sure you include enough personal protective equipment with the supplies you send.**

**I so hope you know what you're doing, Dr. Watson.**

**I'll be doing plenty of research, not to worry, before he starts mixing compounds.**

++

John could hear Mrs. Hudson talking with someone at the door a few hours later. "Sure, take the boxes right upstairs, then." A few minutes later, John watched Sherlock's expression turn from bored to annoyed to interested to fascinated as he unpacked a microscope and a few slides, a source light, and a few vials of assorted chemical substances in varying forms for slide preparation.

"What is this?"

"You mentioned research."

"And you expected this would somehow be helpful?"

"Something to do, yes."

Sherlock seemed to then turn his eye to John as if considering an important question, and then it seemed to John that he was being inspected for purchase. Or perhaps, he reconsidered the threat of vivisection when Sherlock's grin turned a step shy of sinister. John watched with growing cautiousness when Sherlock pulled out a slide, cover, and a large toothpick. "Open your mouth."

"What?"

"Cheek cells."

"So in your world, open your mouth seems to mean please John may I please have a few of your cheek cells to look at under this microscope you arranged to be brought in?" John could vividly recall the respect he'd mostly been given his whole adult life, from his uni classes and profs, into med school and among his teachers and peers, his military days for the most part. His patients and their families - barring these most recent Holmes' examples - typically spoke to him well and treated him like the professional he was. "Your lack of social skills is appalling."

"John."

"Take your own cheek cell sample scrapings. Or ask me nicely." Even from where John was in the room, watching Sherlock putter about, he could see his jaws clench at being given directions. "You can't even do it, to politely ask permission, can you?" The set of Sherlock's face - defiant and resistant - was such that John couldn't stop the giggle. And Sherlock's irritation at John's chuckle unfortunately only brought a bit more of it from his mouth.

Instead of responding, Sherlock turned back to the supplies, ignoring John entirely (or trying to), then pulling out a slide, adding a dot of oil. Then glaring at John, he reached up toward his own head, pulled out a couple of strands of hair, set them in the slide and affixed a glass cover. With obvious practiced skill, he positioned the light, the reflector, and the adjustment knobs, and stared for a moment. "Did you want to look?"

"I don't know. Are you going to attack if I come closer?" Sherlock's mouth twitched just a little before he could stop it. "Harvest something without my consent?"

"Never mind then. I rescind the offer." Haughty eyes seemed to issue a challenge.

John could model what it looked like to change his mind. "I would like to look, actually, yes." He half expected Sherlock to grab him, hold him down, and do something like pluck a few hairs or obtain the oral scrapings. "Interesting. Does the oil make a big difference in the way the light diffuses through?"

"It does. There's methylene blue here too, for dying other slides, to pigment them to show up better. A few other agents for obtaining single-thickness samples."

John nodded, stepped back. "Nicely done. There's a list I printed out of household items that are at least interesting to view under a microscope. Probably some things you already have laying around here. Insect parts, maybe in a window ledge or something. Onion skin. Salt. Fingernail clippings. I think there was something growing mould in the back of the refrigerator." Sherlock briefly looked at him, then quickly away, sullen. "What is the problem here? Does it bother you to be prompted to use basic manners? Like a responsible adult would do without needing to be told, mind you."

"You already treat me like a child."

Pulling one of the kitchen chairs out, John sat down across from him, hoping that it would be more conducive to exploring this rather odd behaviour. "Can I remind you that just yesterday, was it, I took you outside so you could have a cigarette? Not exactly treating you like a child." When there was an almost comical continuance of ignoring John and what he was saying, John could only shake his head. "I'm sorry you've chosen to be so stubborn about this. I'm trying to help you. That's what all of this was about."

"I know."

"I'm also sorry you feel that you're being treated like a child. But," and John hesitated, trying to choose his words well, "do you think that might be for a particular reason?" He waited, not really wanting a verbal response but hoping that Sherlock would at least listen. "All right, while I have had my reasons for it, I'll make more of an effort. To treat you the way you'd like."

There was a mumbling. A displeased, muffled, unintelligible mumbling.

"You know very well that I didn't understand that."

Sherlock's cheeks coloured under John's stare, but he looked back at John, and after clearing his throat, tried again. "Please John, can I have a few of your cheek cells to look at under this microscope that you so kindly obtained?"

"Was that so terribly hard?" John put a hand fondly on Sherlock's head, ruffling the curls, then pulled his chair closer.

And opened his mouth.

++

Sherlock had set out a few liquids, a few agents he'd gathered, a couple from under the sink, to clean off some of the beakers and to wipe down some of the slides he was done with. John offered to help, was turned down, and had started to think about dinner when Sherlock's voice interrupted his musings.

"Oops," he said, "oh, no," and then there was some breaking glass and an awful, protracted, violently strong retching sound. The stench from the table was overpowering, and John immediately leapt over, grabbed Sherlock by the arm, and pulled him away from the fumes.

"You mixed the bleach and the vinegar, didn't you?"

"It was only a little," he said, gagging again. John pushed him down onto the couch, handed him a trash can in case it was needed for the retching, and quickly flung open both windows in the room. "The bleach was old, needed it stronger to get the residual deposits off the glassware." This time, when Sherlock retched, it was with the remainder of lunch and barely contained in a towel John grabbed, thrust at him.

"You know, for a self-purported genius, that was something only a bloody idiot would do." He stood in the room, that was now growing chilly, hands on his hips as he looked around. "Lay low, deep breaths, while I clean up your toxic waste hazard."

He was curled on his side, uncomfortable, a hand pressed into his epigastrum.

John binned what he could, sealed the bag, and carried it to the kerb. When he returned to Sherlock, he could only shake his head. "You'll probably have a bit of a headache. The fumes will leave you feeling a bit off."

_"I know that."_

Part of John wanted to call him on the attitude he was unjustly displaying, but he looked so miserable, pale and sweaty, that those desires dissipated. He opened the window wider despite the chill, thought about a blanket. "Stomach still upset?"

In answer, there was another gag, and John made another decision, gently supporting and lifting Sherlock's arm again. "Off to the bedroom with you. The air will be clearer there, and we'll open a window there too." He did exactly as he'd said, tucked Sherlock who was still mostly doubled over, into the bed. He tucked up the duvet over him against the chill, patting Sherlock's shoulder, and stood just smiling down at the turn of events. "One day you'll learn, won't you?"

"I did know better, thought I had it under control." With a quiet voice, he spoke candidly. "A mistake."

John edged onto the bed, leaning for a moment. He let his hand slide down Sherlock's arm, watching him closely, taking in skin tone, color, stopping at his radial artery. "Pretty high again, of course." He slid the slightly sweaty fringe off Sherlock's forehead, taking particular note of the grimacing, the furrowed brow. "Pain?"

"God yes." He curled up tighter around his belly as another cramp must've hit. "Ow."

"I'll let the flat air a bit longer, and be right back shortly. Unless you need me before then."

"All ri--" he said, or started to, and then stopped, obviously still nauseous, a hand coming to his stomach. His head rolled back into the pillow, clearly not feeling well, and he took a few deep breaths.

"You'll be better soon." John went back out to the kitchen to survey the area quickly. It was cold, the fresh air from the cross ventilation of the open windows having aired out the flat to within an inch of its life, the toxic chlorine gas Sherlock had inadvertently created now gone.

The relative calm of the flat was quickly broken, though, seemingly as soon as John could feel himself begin to relax. From down the hall, there was an urgent, abrupt movement from the bedroom. An expeditious flinging of sheets, he thought. John was on his feet and moving before he was even consciously aware of it, knowing he was needed, an ominous sense of foreboding in the atmosphere. Something was very definitely wrong. "You all right?" he asked from the hallway.

"John!" came the call as he arrived at the doorway, flicking on the light. The distress and pain in Sherlock's voice, in his bearing, was alarming as he was sitting up. "J--!" The word was cut off abruptly.

There was a bubbling, a retch, the sound of propulsion of fluids being ejected again. The few steps to Sherlock's bedside were focused and intent. Sherlock was still in bed, sitting up with his hands randomly flailing, panicking in a desperate attempt to get help. He was vomiting again, a copious amount. His eyes were wide open and frightened, seeking John, unable to call out again for the process at hand.

This time he was vomiting bright red blood clots.

 _Lots_ of them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, all my medically savvy readers: Name the condition Sherlock has.
> 
> +++++
> 
> Thanks for continuing with this story. As always, please let me know if I missed something, or if in my editing I lost the flow or something. Overuse a verb? This chapter seemed to need the word "abrupt". And "smirked". (Wait, is that a siren? Is smirk even a verb? Is that the comma police?!)
> 
> Things not to do:  
> 1\. smoke while wearing a nicotine patch.  
> 2\. mix bleach with anything else. Ever.


	12. Mallory Who?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Differential diagnosis for haemetemesis (vomiting blood):  
>   
> Bleeding gastric or duodenal ulcer  
> Erosive gastritis  
> Bleeding esophageal varices  
> Esophageal trauma or perforation  
> Pharyngeal haemorrhage  
> Mallory-Weiss tear  
> Malignant process of involved structure  
> Overdose, particularly of anticoagulants, antiplatelets, or medications that can precipitate/potentiate bleeding (NSAIDs or aspirin, for example)  
> I had so much fun with this chapter, another very linear format.

"Sherlock!" John had breathed, "oh, god," approaching the bed, gathering the first thing he could as a vessel for the blood. Haemetemesis. Bright red clots.

There was quite a bit at first, clot, bright red, along with thin liquid, and John held the trash can up to Sherlock's chin, holding him as the heaving continued.

Once the initial barrage passed, John leaned closer to feel a pulse - sky high.

"You awake, you with me?" he asked. As he saw Sherlock nod, catching his breath best he could, he could almost see the pallor creep across his face. The ominous, cyanotic duskiness was one John associated with ... very negative outcomes. _"Shit,"_ he whispered.

"What's happen --?" he began, and another hurl came upon him, spitting out a mouthful of bright clot.

With a hand on Sherlock's arm, he slid his mobile from his pocket, dialing 999.

"Ambulance. Dispatch immediately. 221B Baker Street. 28 year old male, vomiting bright red blood clots. Large volume, multiple times. Conscious." _For the moment_ , he didn't say. By this time, Sherlock's eyes were closed, his lips pale.

"No hospital," he said in a whisper at one pause of John's end of the conversation. Sherlock's voice, his entire body, shook with both emotion and near vascular collapse. The tremors were also a bad sign.

"Hospital." John said in reply to Sherlock, then answered a couple of additional questions from the dispatcher. "All right, thank you, the door is already unlocked."

"No," he said again. "You _promised_."

"I did no such thing." And he hadn't, which they both knew. He reached over, turning Sherlock's head to the side, watching his airway and too afraid even for a moment to leave his side until other trained help arrived. "Oh Sherlock." He ached for the man who'd such unpleasant associations. "There's no choice but for it this time."

There was a broken half-sob, a gutwrenching sound that worked its way out of Sherlock's throat and right into John's chest.

"I'll be with you the whole time. I'm not going anywhere." Sherlock's face was turned in toward John's neck, seeking warmth and protection, to burrow somewhere deep within John where no one else could get to him. The tremors subsided just a little as John held him close. There was another bout of retching, a smearing of blood on Sherlock's chin, John's shirt, and onto the bedding. Neither one cared. "Where is that damned ambulance?" he said quietly. In answer, there was a small distant sound of the two-toned siren. Sherlock's arms reached around John, tighter, tighter as the sound must have permeated his awareness of what was coming. "I've got you," John whispered to the curls by his chin as the siren grew louder and then stopped.

They were here. Time to go.

 ++

A loud, bold knock was followed by the sound of the ambulance crew entering the flat. The narrow stretcher on wheels, along with the two men and their few bags of equipment made even Sherlock's large room seem crammed. Introducing himself as Dr. Watson, John confirmed Sherlock's name, birthdate, symptoms, and brief history while the other medic drew out some equipment, IV, lab tubes, heart monitor.

"No one sticks me but John."

"Sherlock," John was impressed that the man could still speak given the low circulating blood volume and pallor he had. The shaking returned in full force.

"One phone call, you're all fired," he said, opening his eyes weakly to see John shaking his head. "Except you."

"I can, if you ..."

"Only John." Sherlock's insistence was punctuated by a growl of sorts. He was certainly conscious and interactive, but clearly not thinking on all cylinders and definitely a little bit beyond reasoning with. Trying to argue with him, it was obvious to all of them, would be a pointless waste of time - time that they might not have.

"Fine by us," the medic said, taking in the assortment of equipment in the bedroom, eyeing up John and finding some cameraderie. "He just needs a line before we transport. Labs. Fluids running. Use our supplies or the hospital will just re-do it if he arrives with unfamiliar access." John took gloves, tourniquet, chlorhexidine, flicking at a vein and grateful it had filled. John didn't even mess around with trying to find a line other than antecubital, pulled off a bouquet of tubes, hooked up the running line the medic handed him. The lack of argument or even challenge to John's qualifications, role, was a testament to how terribly unstable Sherlock looked and the urgency with which things needed to flow for Sherlock's safety. Sherlock's shaking - hypovolaemia certainly - made rendering any care or treatments extra hard.

"Cold," Sherlock whispered.

John pulled the supplied blanket up. "Blood loss'll do that." There were a few additional times he vomited up a mouthful of blood, but nothing quite as voluminous as the previous episodes. The paramedic had even been somewhat impressed by the size of the clots and the volume from earlier. The medics were a good team with a good flow, working in tandem, moved the stretcher close to the bed. While they orchestrated Sherlock's sliding from one to the other, which they mostly performed for him, John pulled out his mobile again. "What hospital?"

"No hospital," Sherlock muttered as the medic overruled him, speaking over him as the team leader, answered, "Closest. Bart's."

He clicked on Mycroft's contact information.  **En route to Bart's. Vomiting significant amounts of blood. Conscious. You need to meet us there. John**

(Sent, delivered, received, read).

John's mobile pinged a few minutes later as Sherlock was being loaded into the rear of the ambulance.

**It's going to take me at least an hour, minimum. I'm unavoidably out of the city. Will do my best to get there ASAP. Please update me as you are able. Mycroft**

++

There was one physician waiting for the ambulance, and the charge nurse as well, who even knew John's name - _thank you Mycroft_ \- and they were quickly ushered into one of the large bays inside the doors of the A &E. Sherlock had a tight grip - death grip - on John's hand, and the tension in his whole body was obvious, though to the staff it may have been attributed simply to critical injury or haemorrhage.

"Onset?"

"45 minutes ago, max an hour. Sudden onset of vomiting earlier secondary to accidental inhalation ..." and here John hedged as a couple of staff members descended on Sherlock, who let out a frightened whine, his fingers now clenched even harder in Sherlock's vice grip. " ... of noxious fumes..."

"John?" the young shaky voice was back, his entire body tensed. The ambulances heart monitor alarmed, and another nurse arrived. _"John!"_

"... without proper ventilation," John added. "Chlorine gas. No LOC. Stomach contents at first, violent and projectile, then just bile. Bright red blood with clot half hour later."

The medic was nodding, and spoke up then. "500 mls at least. Impressive, burgundy." One of the A&E techs arrived, helped the lot of people gathered moving Sherlock to a regular A&E bed, began to connect the bedside monitor and various equipment to Sherlock. John'd had to let go of him of course, circled around the bed in an attempt to stay out of the way. The labs were labeled and sent, and a registration clerk arrived with name band. It took barely a moment for it to register to John that Sherlock, in the overwhelming chaos, was trying to curl up on the bed, arms up over his face, and was softly, brokenly, calling his name.

Ignoring the clerk's last question completely, John moved to Sherlock's head, brushed a hand over his curls. "I'm here, yeah, you're okay. Not going anywhere." John burrowed his own hand under the blanket to find Sherlock's cold, clammy, tremulous one. He held on tight, a deathgrip, an anchor, a lifeline, a plea. "I know you have a lot to do right away with him," John said to the nearest doc, "but can we thin the crowd a little? It's a bit _anxiety_ - _provoking_." A moment of eye contact, and John's serious gaze at the doc seemed to convey more than he'd uttered. _He has anxiety, this is not helping._

"And you are?"

"Dr. John Watson. I've been his private medical coordinator a few weeks now."

"Detox or rehab?"

"Something like that, yes." Given the setting and the urgency of determining the issue, both kept answers short and quick.

The doc nodded, seemed to take a liking to John and wanted to keep moving. Approaching Sherlock's side again, closer, he addressed the few people standing, watching, helping, tending. "Okay, thanks, let's give me some room here, I'll need some space for a few minutes." He spoke gently and calmly, his manner such that no one reacted other than to finish their present task and then step back, most of them leaving the room now that they'd seen to the most critical needs.

There were some bookkeeping questions, confirmation of name, date of birth, surgical history, and medication list obtained mostly from John. The physician did a brief exam, listening to heart, lungs, lightly palpating abdomen, percussing lower belly, "History of varices?"

"Not to my knowledge. Sherlock?"

"No."

"Cirrhosis? Ulcer? Previous GI bleeding?"

"No," Sherlock whispered, and John was nodding, concurring.

The doc settled his hands over Sherlock's lower right costal border, fingertips sliding slightly in. "Deep breath," he directed, and Sherlock complied. Both docs watched his face, waiting for a grimace. There was none. "Liver's not enlarged," he said with a look of consideration.

"Mallory Weiss tear?" John suggested. "Timing and presentation fit."

"Perhaps, fairly likely." They swapped a few other sentences, and the doc stepped out to enter some orders, telling John he would make a few calls as well, and get back when there was a plan or updates.

One of the techs arrived to do an ECG, and John helped connect the leads, attempting to minimise the tremors for tracing quality. They'd no sooner finished than a radiology tech pushed a portable unit into the room.

"Holmes?" Two people nodded. "Portable chest."

A hard plate was carefully placed behind Sherlock, and John waited for what he hoped was the best timing to inform Sherlock, "I'm going to have to step out while they get this." Sherlock's unhappy eyes snapped to his and he brought both hands up in John's direction, trying to grab two fists of John's shirt. "A few seconds and I'll be right back in."

"No, you promised." The anxiety escalated, his speech too rapid to be fully understood. _"You bloody promised!"_

"Sherlock, it's ..."

"No, I refuse. Take me home. I'll sign myself out," The staff there halted, knowing the lingo and what it meant (assault if the patient was refusing). Sherlock eyed the door, a hand brushing over the monitor leads, and John didn't doubt that he would at least try, and then probably collapse.

The tech, John, and the doc all met eyes. It was John who made the first suggestion. "If you have lead, I don't mind staying bedside." A shrug, and then the lead apron and vest were placed around John. Sherlock had grown silent, eyes wide. "All right, Sherlock?"

At his nod, the film was obtained, the radiology unit a state of the art piece of technology that showed the image immediately. Though John couldn't see the actual image, having no desire to rattle Sherlock any further, the physician viewed it quickly. "No free air." John breathed a small sigh of relief at the lack of catastrophic finding. "Little atelectatic. Smoker?"

"Trying to quit. Nicoderm." John was relieved that there was no diaphragmatic perforation, no free air.

"Time of last meal?"

"Four hours, liquids. Solids at least six. At least."

The lights were dimmed, Sherlock's blood pressure hovering low, the IV fluids infusing wide open, and he closed his eyes with one hand still wrenched around John's shirt sleeve, clinging like a burr to a long-haired dog, or a desperate shipwreck passenger to a lifeboat. Absently, John let his free hand brush at Sherlock's arm, smooth his hair, straighten and then crisp up the sheets, eventually finding tissues to try to wipe the blood from his neck and lip.

The physician returned, somber, assessing at a glance where Sherlock's vital signs were displayed. "Gastro's in the way in, GI lab suite will be available soon," he told John. The doctor then turned to Sherlock, who seemed ready to detonate at the slightest provocation. "You'll need a scope tonight, called an endoscopy, check out the source of bleeding, cauterize or inject it if needed."

"No."

John reached out to steady Sherlock's shoulder as he tried to sit up. "I'll talk to him."

Some labwork was delivered, and the doctor glanced at John, then the patient, and asked, "When was your last drink, Mr. Holmes?"

Both John and Sherlock stared at the man who asked the question. John posed one of his own. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, there's no alcohol detected in his blood, but his MCH is elevated. Quite elevated, actually."

John was nodding at that, "Right. He's been anaemic. Blood transfusion about two weeks ago." He turned to Sherlock to explain the connection but Sherlock's stomach chose that moment to lurch, and a basin was handed quickly to John who directed Sherlock's head over it as he vomited up another round of bloody liquid and clots. While Sherlock emptied his stomach, again, into the basin, John found himself wondering how quickly the specialist would be here.

++

The sign over the door in the Gastroenterology suite read EGD Procedural Area - No admittance.

"John, John, _John_?" Sherlock's voice was a study in vibrato, a low and pained sound that was encroaching on the line in the sand where panic would set in. "Get me out of here, I swear it, _now_." They had been quickly shuffled down a hallway to the restricted area, and Sherlock started with a leg over the siderail, followed by the other foot off the bed then rattled himself fully off the stretcher, stood where he could see the doorway, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, lips thin, pale, shaky, and with a small line of crusty blood on his jaw from when he'd last vomited. The monitor had come disconnected, a high pitched urgent alarm sounding until someone silenced it. " _I can't_ , don't you understand anything?" The IV line stretched a bit tight, too tight, until the nurse moved the large volume bag closer, the pole on wheels moving easily with her foot. "I can't," he said again. "Don't ask it of me."

John stood close, not holding or restraining, and not anxious to have to pull rank and have Sherlock brought to compliance by force. "Deep breath, it's going to be all right." John leaned low to tell Sherlock if he doesn't relax, he'll be anaesthetised, put under general, which will guarantee him at least an overnight. The private procedure room was just their small group - the nurse, John, Sherlock, and the physician. "You can do this. More," he said, pausing a little and gentling his words, "you _need_ to do this. I'm going to help you."

The nurse came to John then, nodding, sympathetic but looking to help. "We've got this, there'll be sedation soon, I have someone coming who can help hold him. Once the sedation's on board, he'll calm down. Or we can ..." Her eyes flicked at the supplies laid out, where there had been soft wrist restraints tucked off to the side in case they were needed.

"Absolutely not." He knew that his voice had just gotten low, deadly. It was the Captain Watson _mess with me and prepare to die_ voice, and he was largely okay with that. His directive was full stop non-negotiable. "No restraints."

Despite the quiet exchange, Sherlock heard, of course, and John approached, placed what he hoped was a calming hand over Sherlock's shoulder. Frantically, Sherlock's hand came up to John's shirt front, scrabbling, a fist holding and unhappy, upset. His eyes were dilated, wild. "John!" The hand clawed at John's neck, his collar, leaving scratches behind in a desperate attempt to hide somehow, seeking refuge inside John's protective body.

To the nurse, John simply breathed, "There's a history." The specialist was still there, watching, waiting but ready to intervene as soon as he was needed. John caught his eye. "No restraints."

"All right. No restraints," he echoed. "Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock answered, a faint moan, turned his head away from everyone except John.

His hands found Sherlock's shoulder, and he got into Sherlock's direct line of vision. "You'll be fine, stand still a minute." Sherlock's shaky legs were only weakly holding him up, and John's hold on his arms became the only thing keeping Sherlock from crumpling on the floor. "Sit here," he indicated the stretcher, "please. Before you fall over and hurt yourself worse."

Another attempt to move away, a moan, and Sherlock's stomach roiled again, a retching of mostly just thin bloody tinged fluid. "Don't let them hurt me," he pleaded softly, tone broken and vulnerable sounding. He barely leaned a hip against the procedure bed there in the room, but at least it gave him some support.

John kept a strong hand firmly in Sherlock's, who clung and scrabbled for any part he could reach of John's. To the providers there watching, waiting, he spoke to them. "Med school, paeds rotation, had a mum desperate to stay, special needs child, SID or something. We ended up letting her get in the bed with him, behind him, calmed the boy down. Ended up really, absolutely fine. Minimal sedation, procedure completed, no complications." Sherlock's free arm clenched around his belly as he doubled over, another spasm, and he stared pointedly at the door, his intent for escape clear and obviously not possible. "I suggest if we want his cooperation and to proceed safely, that might be an option. Let me get behind him, talk him down, and keep him calm." Sherlock only had eyes for the door, and John could sense that it was time to declare their plan. _Somebody make a decision._ "Yeah?"

"Fine," the doc answered, less than thrilled but agreeable, with the nurse nodding tentatively as well. "Let's tell anaesthesia we're almost ready for them."

John squeezed Sherlock's icy hand. "We'll try it." He slipped off his shoes and pulled off his jumper, as it was bulky and he thought Sherlock would perhaps feel more secure without the extra layer between them.

"Your job is just to keep him calm and cooperative, Dr. Watson. No getting in my way, and keep the chatter to a minimum."

"Oh trust me, no worries. I have no intention --"

"John," Sherlock said, his voice wobbling. "John, I can't... oh god," and he started to hyperventilate, skin clammy.

"Now look at me," John insisted, emphasising his words carefully, "Eyes on me." Once Sherlock had done so, John said to him resolutely, "I've got this, and you're going to trust me, follow directions."

"What if I can't?" This in a sorrowful whisper, frightened and shaky.

"I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you again."

There was a harsh swallow, an obvious dilemma, a struggle, an inner conflict. _"I just can't!"_

"Up you go," he said, patting the stretcher, which, in Sherlock's defense, did look somewhat menacing.

"Just sit for the moment," John prompted, lowering the siderail on the other side of the bed. "Sit for now, but eventually, you'll be laying on your left side, I'll be right behind you."

Sherlock was suddenly stock still, resistant to any measure of cooperation, his body tight, statue-like, jaws clenched, feet planted.

"I've got you, all you have to do is listen, it's going to be fine." John spoke reassuringly. "There'll be a little sedation, you'll relax..."

"I don't want to."

"I know."

"There's nothing else for it?"

John went for scientific. "Medically speaking, waiting is risky, the bleeding needs to be stopped, need to make sure there's no perforation." John brought his hand to Sherlock's chin, tipping his head gently until he met his eyes, "but you do have to agree to it."

He was still met with stony silence. John could sense that the nurse was intently watching, listening, then must've conferred a bit with the doc as Sherlock maintained radio silence, waiting for John to press onward so they could get started.

A clipboard was offered to John, biro attached. "You're also going to need to sign consent."

When he held it out for Sherlock, there was more complaining, a frustrated gesture with his arms. "You do it," he fussed, nearly a whine.

"I can't. I'm not your power of attorney."

All of them were still standing, the doc spoke then quietly, addressing Sherlock and John. He explained simply, stating that this needed to get done, that it was time to get started, and ending with the fact that the risk of doing the procedure was much less than not doing it. 

Sherlock was not convinced, his eyes wide, dilated, and frightened. "You'll stay with me?" John nodded. "You're all bloody certain?" At the next nod of John's head Sherlock signed with a large loopy scrawl, tossed to the board in the direction of the doc. "Doesn't change the fact that I still don't want to," he said, with a petulant scowl.

"Sorry, mate, really doesn't matter what you want. You need this. And all you have to do is listen to me." John let go of Sherlock's arm, choosing to convince Sherlock to come to him. He climbed up on the stretcher, backed up as far as he could against the siderail, laid on his left side, arm up. Patting the bed, he spoke evenly. "This spot's for you. Come here." The stand off continued. "Now please."

For a moment, it seemed he might turn tail and bolt, IVs and everything else be damned.

 _"That's an order, soldier,"_ John breathed quietly.

An expectant breath, a moment of tension swirled about the entire room, the team holding their collective worries, and Sherlock froze a moment longer before moving, sitting and then scooting over close to John on shaking limbs. He was hyperventilating, tremulous, but did as John asked, getting into a left lateral decubitus position in front of John. He was unable, John knew, to put together any sentences.

One of the nurses arrived, gently, slowly, began to re-attach the heart monitor. "Routine monitoring," John assured him as he bristled, tensed as if he was going to pull away or start fighting uncooperatively. There was a blood pressure cuff again, a pulse oximeter, both of which John was able to talk Sherlock into cooperating with, accepting, tolerating.

Sherlock's body was tense, tightly coiled, barely able to stay on the stretcher. John considered a few approaches, deciding finally but quickly on directing the team as much as he could, within reason.

"Good for you, rest here, breathe in, head down. Breathe out, just like that." He continued to talk, cuing the scrub nurse and physician with his directions to Sherlock. "See, you're doing so well - they're going to dim the lights, little oxygen in your nose, here's the IV fluids soon, might feel cool. Perfect, good job, just like that on your side. I'm putting my arm around your waist, that's all, and we're going to spoon, the two of us. They're sworn to maintain confidentiality, no photos please, and I'm sure," and here John couldn't stop the chuckle, "this won't actually make it into the procedure note." Sherlock's shivering was pronounced as John made minor adjustments to their position, tipping his head up off the pillow as a paper chux was placed over the pillow. The whooshing sound of a suction catheter was activated, tucked out of sight but within close reach.

John forced his own breath to slow, in out, relax, hoping Sherlock would follow suit.

"Mr. Holmes, one last time, name and date of birth, and why you're here."

He answered, voice stressed, high pitched, citing the reason as vomiting blood.

The lights dimmed, inversely proportional to the tension that John could feel throughout Sherlock's body in front of him. With a warm hand, he brushed up along Sherlock's arm as he lay. There were tremors, mostly of his arms, as the doctor nodded to the nurse. There was a hesitation, and then the rote words followed. "I have a time out. Sherlock Holmes. Endoscopy. Equipment?"

"Yes." The nurse answered.

"Consent." The physician was speaking quietly, reading from the computer screen in front of him.

"Yes."

Sherlock's whisper was quiet, a background accompaniment, mouth dry and body tense, _"Oh god."_

"Let's get started."

"John?" Sherlock began to turn toward John, up on an elbow, as if John was going to rescue him, let him flee the room. _"John!"_

"Shh, you're fine. Lay back. I've got you." Careful not to fling an arm or leg over Sherlock to hold him in place, John spoke quietly, guiding with an open hand, until he twisted back around so that his back lay toward John's chest again. "That's it, just be easy."

An adjustment of Sherlock's arm, and the anaesthesiologist approached. "Good for you, here's a little bit of medicine to help you relax." He swabbed the IV port, began to bolus with midazolam.

"If you're following that with fentanyl," he began, and the anaesthesiologist nodded, looking pointedly at the next syringe he was holding, "he's not opioid naive," John said quietly.

"Sedation doesn't work well on me," Sherlock said, "at all," his body tense and rigid, his shoulders legs, everything rock hard. "I need --" John watched with a bit of dread as the physician picked up a bite block, and Sherlock caught sight of it and stopped talking abruptly. The physician looked down at them, nodded for the lights to be dimmed a bit more, and Sherlock's breathing became audible, coarse, anxious. _"John!"_

"Shh, it's okay, sshhh, it's a bite block to protect your teeth is all. You're getting a little more medicine, I've got you, you're safe here. Completely safe," John slid his hand up toward Sherlock's free arm, where he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was going to resist, push away the hands trying to help him, that he would fight the bite block.

Almost definitely, they would have used one many years ago for the ECT he'd endured, though Sherlock hadn't remembered until this moment.

"They have to put it in while you're pretty awake because sometimes people's jaws clench once the narcotics are given." Their hands met, locked. "Can you try to just let this happen? I'm here, they're helping you, you're just going to take some deep breaths. In and out through your nose, nice and slow, while the medicine starts to help." John nodded to the doctor, who smiled at Sherlock, ready to begin, the bite block offered under Sherlock's nose.

"Here you go, open," the doctor prompted, and John wished he was close enough to step on his foot to get him to shut up, clearly he was impatient.

"It's to protect your teeth, we don't want a chip." It was also, John knew, to protect the scope as well as the gloved fingers of the doc, who would be guiding it to the back of Sherlock's throat, but Sherlock didn't need to know that. "In through your nose," he prompted. Sherlock nodded faintly, the effort must have been terrible, and John gave him a little encouraging squeeze as he opened his teeth for the piece of plastic, "Good for you, nice and easy." He watched the nurse again, "Little more medicine, looks like the good stuff this time," as he could see the white syringe approaching the IV line, and the straps were velcroed around the back of Sherlock's head, and the panicked look seemed to escalate in Sherlock's eyes and face. "Okay, all routine stuff, you're good, breathe with me," and John took an exaggerated inhale. He could feel the trembling muscles of Sherlock's body attempt to follow directions. "Good, and now breathe out," which they both did. With the quick rate John was going to have to breathe in to accommodate Sherlock, he hoped he didn't hyperventilate himself.

The anaesthesiologist puffed a little more medication into Sherlock's running IV, sped the fluids up a little, checked another blood pressure. John could see it flashing over Sherlock's bed, too high due to anxiety. The hospital providers, all of them, shared a glance, as if skeptical that John would be able to talk Sherlock through this, into complying. The physician gave a little shrug, nodded at the syringe, directing for another small dose to be given.

"Breathe with me," John said again. "Close your eyes if you want."

There was a gurgle, a movement of Sherlock's tongue and lips as he tried to say something, and John was quick with his hand to catch Sherlock's hand before he pulled the bite block out.

"Little more medicine, Mr. Holmes, and we'll get started as you go to sleep." The doctor's voice was calm, and he was, John thought, appropriately assertive and in control. There was a nod at the nurse. "Another half milligram of midazolam."

Another sound in Sherlock's throat, a questioning one this time, and John spoke low in Sherlock's ear. "More sedation, you're doing fine."

The endoscope was lubed up, out of sight for the moment, and once Sherlock's eyes barely drifted closed, the doctor brought suction to Sherlock's pillow. "Another fifty of propofol. You'll feel the scope over your tongue, nice deep breaths through your nose now, good, and ... here we go, swallow when you feel it..." John watched the scope and the long fingers of the gastroenterologist begin advancing into Sherlock's mouth, and he had to remind himself to breathe as he could feel Sherlock's head press back against him.

Sherlock's hand tensed, reached, and there were a bunch of things that happened right away. A gag first, and the reflexive reach for the foreign object, which John grabbed instantly. John watched carefully for signs of distress, his arms around Sherlock, one under the pillow, the other holding one or both of Sherlock's hands, whichever was threatening his procedure, equipment, or healthcare provider. The suction was used, clearing Sherlock's mouth around the scope, another gag as they did so, and in short order, the GI specialist breathed a loud sigh of relief "we're in!" and the scope was advanced into Sherlock's esophagus. Thank god.

The scope was an eternity of nine minutes. John felt it endless, and, once he heard they were nearly done, heard that they had retroflexed the scope to see the lower esophagus once more, he wondered if perhaps Mycroft could put him in for a medal. This had been totally, completely, _absolutely_ exhausting.

++

The procedure ended, the Mallory Weiss tear confirmed, endoscope and bite block removed. All the bleeding had stopped. There was minimal need for slight cautery, just to be sure in one friable area, some photos, and then the nurse was back to inspect the monitors and peer down at Sherlock with a smile at John.

"I'll leave the lights dim for now, he can wake up slow on his own." His blood pressure cycled again, very low this time, and she sped up his IV fluids. His heart rate had, with the sedation, slowed to mostly normal range. John would know once Sherlock started to awaken; his heart rate would absolutely climb back up again as awareness returned.

John's sighing breath ruffled the curly hair on the pillow in front of him. The scent of Sherlock's shampoo hit John's nose, along with a hint of sweat - he'd been moving, stressed, and clearly his perspiring body had reacted, the last several hours having taken their toll. Carefully, John let go of the hand he'd still been holding, letting the sedated man in front of him have the freedom he most certainly needed. 

The doc popped back in, checked Sherlock's vital signs on the monitor. "BPs still a little low, he run that way?"

John nodded.

"We can get that rail down, let you up if you want."

He shook his head, "Not yet," knowing first off that Sherlock would awaken if he tried to move that much, and second that he wouldn't be happy if John were not right there where he'd promised to be, when he did return to consciousness.

"Suit yourself, catch a nap while he sleeps."

Smiling, John whispered, "Probably a good idea."

"Bit unorthodox, this, but worked out very well."

"Thank you for letting me." John's voice was quiet, sincere, "I can't tell you what harm would have been done to him, to have forced him and used restraints, or general anaesthesia. It would have set us back so far, you have no idea."

"I'll be back when he's more awake, go through findings again, with him this time." 

"Thanks."

John closed his eyes, breathing deeply, the scents of Sherlock's familiarity, the knowledge that he was near, safe, close also comforting.

Soft shoes on the lino, quietly, but John opened his eyes again. The nurse appeared, tucked the oxygen back more securely in Sherlock's nose, patted them both, then turned back to the electronic documentation for a few minutes, then left the room. Without thinking too much John's arms tightened around Sherlock, and he welcomed the relief at Sherlock's much more stable condition, the procedure being over, and that he would be all right.

Crisis averted.

Without too much conscious thought, he pressed his lips lightly, slowly, gently to Sherlock's shoulder, and left them there a few seconds. His own eyes widened at the action when he realised. For a few moments, he mostly held his breath, wondering if Sherlock was actually awake, had felt it. The tenderness, the sentiment, the investment he'd made in this particular patient had grown deep, _deep_ roots. There was no immediate response, no questioning breath or turn of the head, just the chemically relaxed body in his arms, nestled in the security of John's embrace.

Sherlock was another ten minutes before anything began to be different. First change John noticed was that his breathing picked up, a bit quicker and deeper. There was tension, first in his shoulders, then in his head stirring. Several more minutes elapsed, arms twitching just a bit, uncooperative even as he was still rather sedated, before anything verbal kicked in. The sound at first was simply a guttural complaint, a rumble deep in his throat. Moments later, it was, "John," he whispered, and John shushed him gently, letting his hand brush over Sherlock's temple, soothing and gentle, easing his hair back where it belonged, the oxygen and strap from earlier having mussed it. Sherlock twisted his head, moaned a little, which was followed shortly by the statement, "I don't wanna do this." Briefly, there was a little struggling of his arms coming up toward his face, protective and reflexive, pushing away at nothing. The hyperventilation continued, heart rate monitor alarming with the elevated rate, and Sherlock's voice was still gravelly as he said, "Let me up!" The alarm was silenced from out at the desk, John figured when it stopped.

"They're done, Sherlock, you did great." John let his arms be simply a presence, drawing Sherlock's tense body against him without restricting his movement for the moment. "All over."

"They did?" John assured him again the procedure was completed, and Sherlock nodded, his shoulders relaxing and his respiratory rate settling back down to the level of the deeply sedated. A few minutes later, he was up on an elbow again, and it was "When are they going to get started?"

Chuckling softly, John also leaned forward, patting him. "All done, they're finished. No more bleeding."

A mournful sob sounded in Sherlock's throat as the realisation kicked in that John was speaking the truth, and John was moved by a rush of pity. He covered the silence with a few instructions as Sherlock tried to get a grip on himself.

"Don't go anywhere."

"I'm not, not yet. But you're all done, and I'm so proud of you."

A hand came up to the oxygen he was wearing, and would have pulled it away except that John cleared his throat in warning.

"I'm going to get up in a couple minutes, when you're ready. Leave that alone," and Sherlock's hand stilled, the oxygen tubing safe for the moment. John soothed, "Good job, it's all right." He eased his body away just a little, preparing eventually for Sherlock not panicking when he did need to get up completely. His arm pressed on Sherlock's shoulder in a gesture of security, of the sense that he should stay right where he was. "When you're more awake, they'll start talking about letting us go home." Weakly, Sherlock heard that and was suddenly motivated to sit up until a dizziness must have descended on him and he swayed briefly before laying back against the pillow. John took that moment to push himself upright and off the stretcher. "Your throat might be a bit sore, from the vomiting earlier and the tube just now, the scope they used." John stayed quite close to the bed, where Sherlock could not only see him but feel him, where his arm lay on the edge of the procedure stretcher.

Now that he had a moment, he stretched out his own neck. Then, checking his mobile, he found two texts from Mycroft.

**Unavoidably detained. Update please?**

and later, **I hear the procedure is over and all is well. Please let me know when you are ready to return to Baker Street. My driver is on stand-by for you both.**

He fired off a quick "ok" then repocketed the device, glad to remain in the moment, where Sherlock needed him.

There on the stretcher, still on his side but looking a little forlorn, was Sherlock, eyes open but unfocused, lost somewhere in thought. "You're doing great," he told him. A lone, stray tear slid from Sherlock's left eye, the one closer to the pillow, and dripped down into the linens. John reached over, tucking and lifting the corner of the sheet against it. "Soon as they say it's safe, I'll take you home."

Had the room not have been stock still and quiet, John would have missed Sherlock's single, heartbroken word: _please._

 ++

Sherlock did not end up clearing the sedation as quickly as John - as anyone - would have liked, and they were both somewhat frustrated by the time the physician wrote the discharge orders and went over their discharge instructions. There had been more than one discussion about the physician wanting Sherlock to stay overnight, but John immediately put the kibbosh on that recommendation with a flat out 'no'.

"I will watch him, at his home, and we will return immediately if there are any issues."

"He really should be monitored ..."

"Trust me, I know what to look for, and I will monitor him." He intended to step to the hallway to talk to the doctor, but Sherlock must have sensed it, reached out a hand to desperately fist John's shirt again, holding him fast. John reiterated that he had a medical home, would be quite attentive, and understood that the first sign of trouble would be game-changing. He conceded that the IV site could be left in, though he doubted he would need it, which helped somewhat. When they finally were ready, John also had copies of all Sherlock's labwork, procedure note, and a new prescription for a proton pump inhibitor to augment the healing MW tear.

Later that night, having been driven home by one of Mycroft's affiliates, John led Sherlock directly to the loo, where he insisted that Sherlock use the toilet and brush his teeth. Though he resisted initially, John glared, and pressed, and in short order it had been accomplished and they were in the bedroom. John helped Sherlock into the chair opposite the bed while he efficiently (speedily) changed the bloody linens. Once that was ready, he removed Sherlock's shoes, offered him pyjama pants and a vest. John pondered the monitoring equipment briefly, whispered "sod it," and connected only the pulse oximeter to Sherlock's toe again. It would give him hypoxia and extreme heart rate alarms, and that was enough. He set the alarms rather permissively, then nudged Sherlock toward the bed, and climbed in next to him. No discussion had been necessary, and it was unquestioned, any other option not even a consideration given Sherlock's silent pleading and John's protectiveness. And after the preceding events, the high emotion, John felt it wisest and best.

John turned out the light. "Good job tonight, I wasn't kidding about that," John said, quietly, his voice still managing to be loud in the stillness of the room.

"Thank you for..." and the sentence died off. The words were thick, and got stuck in Sherlock's throat.

"I know. You needed it." John patted his upper arm, looking over at Sherlock. In the dim light, two sets of eyes were open, darkly glittering from the short span away, two separate spots on their individual pillows. "Success."

"Had you not been there..."

"But I was. I promised you I would be, and we did it."

"I felt your mouth on my shoulder. Your lips." The utterance was matter of fact, spoken without set-up, without further opinion.

"You're imagining things."

"I felt it, your lips pressing."

"You'd had sedation, I'm sure it was..."

"Right here," Sherlock insisted, reaching his long fingers up to the very area John was denying...

"You did not, you weren't even conscious then, and nothing happened anyway."

"So I was sleeping, or nothing happened?" Sherlock was intense, looking at John there in the faint glow in the room. "Seems you don't have your story straight."

"You were having a hard time. It must have been very hard, the association, having a procedure, now that you know why hospitals bother you."

"John."

"I don't blame you. You have every right to your feelings."

"You're deflecting."

"Caught that, yeah?" John opted not to argue about it further, simply rested back against the pillow. He let his eyes drift closed, hoped Sherlock would give it a rest.

"You feel affection for me, and that's the only way you would have done that."

"Go to sleep, Sherlock."

"You can do it again if you want."

"If you keep this up I will move. I probably should anyway."

"You ever kiss a patient before?"

"No."

"Do you want to, again?"

"No, please ...

"Other medical staff then?" John exhaled, a large huff of air. Sherlock was more awake than he'd been the whole night. "No, really, I'm not that tired right now, just... humour me, talk to me for a bit?"

"Yes, occasionally other medical staff I suppose, in the army there were a few nurses I guess, another doc once. Stuff just.. . happens.

"Men and women?"

"Yes.

"But not patients."

"No."

"Not before today."

"It barely counted. It was meant to be, I don't know, _comforting_."

Sherlock's breathing eased a little. A few moments later he mumbled something, and John asked him to repeat it quietly, in case he was talking in his sleep. "Chemistry," he said.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I was going to get my PhD in chemistry. I'd be a doctor too, and then you wouldn't have any qualms ..."

"Oh god, Sherlock, stop it. If I pressed my lips on your shoulder it was only out of affection, fondness. A means to comfort you. I know you were terrified, and I was proud of you for doing so well."

"I could probably finish my PhD, and then --"

"Stop. It has nothing to do with anyone's education, status, degree, or ... _shoe size_ for that matter. You're my patient, and my involvement with you is, should be, strictly professional."

"Kissing a patient's shoulder isn't strictly professional, though, is it?" Sherlock was needling him, instigating, looking for any possible button and attempting to push it.

With that same fondness very much in his thoughts, John could only smile at his antics, decided to push back. "You must be exhausted, after the day you had."

"Can we lay like that again?"

Under the covers, John could feel the faintest stirring below his waist. "We shouldn't. You know that."

"All right, then. The other way is fine too." John shouldn't have been surprised when Sherlock's hand grabbed John's arm, pushing at his arm and chest until he rolled on his side facing away from Sherlock. A pillow was tucked down, ruched down, against the back of John's neck, followed shortly by the press of a warm, pyjama-clothed body up against his back. "Just relax." John could feel the faint rumble, the chuckle as Sherlock spoke to him, close enough that even the breathy exhale as he spoke was palpable against his neck. Sherlock's knees tucked up behind John's, and an arm snaked around his waist. "I've got you." The words, echoes of what John had said earlier, multiple times actually, were spoken through an obviously grinning Sherlock - John could hear the smile. There was a different, almost raspy quality to Sherlock's voice after the events of the day, but he was in good spirits as he snuggled up. "Though I must warn you," he added low, "you're not exactly what I would consider _safe_ here."

John kept completely still in Sherlock's arms, willing his body to stand down, to relax, to remain motionless and unprovoking. Because beneath his legs, at the top of the back of his thighs, there was a bit of movement, the shifting of body parts under pyjamas, the knowledge that Sherlock's body was responding to him, filling out, making itself known. He could feel Sherlock behind him, breath, arms, chest, knees, feet and all the parts in between. There was a tension, an arching of Sherlock's back, the tightening of Sherlock's arm across his middle, in preparation for pressing, the imminent rolling his hips, grinding his erection against John's pelvis. "Sherlock, stop," he directed, his own voice sounding a bit stressed. "Behave." From the portable monitoring base, the heart rate alarm sounded, elevated. "See? _Behave_ ," he said again with a wry amusement. "Even the universe is trying to tell you."

As John expected after the mild reprimand, there was a huff of annoyance, and the loosening of Sherlock's arms, a little bit less tension on the way he was holding his body.

"Good night," he whispered next, and Sherlock twitched a bit but didn't answer. Soon, the evening out of Sherlock's respiratory pattern and the softening of his hold let John know that he had managed to fall asleep. It was a long time before John was able to do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Mallory-Weiss tear is the split or tear that occurs in the mucosal lining between the distal esophagus and stomach. It can, just like it did to Sherlock, cause acute _massive bleeding_ when the tear occurs somewhere vascular. Most often a MW tear will heal on its own without intervention. It is most often caused by vomiting in vulnerable patients.
> 
> On a personal note, I had an endoscopy a few years back, and it is definitely a scary thing in those few moments between the "time out" call and when the sedation kicks in. I thought Sherlock being the little spoon, nestled against John's protective tenderness sounded too good for them to miss out on. (I may just ask MF if he's available if I never need one again.)
> 
> My facility uses a portable radiology machine that is just... heavenly. Immediate images, visible to physician, nurses, IV team. Instant gratification, thy name is advanced portable technology. In this case, they were immediately able to rule out diaphragmatic perforation because there was no "free air" in any of the places where it just shouldn't be.
> 
> Thanks for the comments and the love. Sorry for the cliff-hanger last time. This chapter ending - in bed. Right where they *ahem* should be. They're closer now than they ever were.
> 
> I have "never" posted two chapters only a day apart. But it was finished, and I was kind of like, eh, why not? That said, please let me know if I missed anything.
> 
> [Endoscopy suite snuggles!](https://madeleinefs.deviantart.com/art/Fanart-for-Beauty-from-Ashes-2-729733449)


	13. Protestation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson has made amazing progress as Sherlock's independent medical coordinator. There have been improvements in nutrition, mobility, self-care, and socialisation, but some setbacks too: a brief relapse, a hospital procedure, and even more importantly, boredom.
> 
> While Sherlock continues to recover, John searches for something that can engage both his mind and his transport.
> 
> If things continue, and Sherlock behaves, John might just work himself right out of a job. On some levels, that is entirely the point!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter's a bit shorter than planned, but there's fanart!
> 
> Fanart, I tell you. And it's exciting and a first and I just couldn't wait to share it.
> 
> Here is the link, and I'm including it again at the end with a little more of my reaction.  The link is now working, sorry for the delay!
> 
> [Fanart!](https://madeleinefs.deviantart.com/art/Fanart-for-Beauty-from-Ashes-726687571)

The night, once John fell asleep, was uneventful from a physical standpoint. Unless of course, it is slightly unusual that he'd awoken with a man sprawled across him, a hand splayed over his chest, a pyjama-clad leg thrown across his thigh, an armful of patient. Sherlock's head was close, resting on his shoulder, eyes closed and fully relaxed in sleep. His mouth was closed. It didn't take John long to quickly realise that this was not just Sherlock who'd moved, given the fact that John's arm was resting around behind Sherlock's back, encircling him as well. His own hand was spread out just over Sherlock's waist, a statement of belonging, and security, and possession.

Care-taking on a whole new level, he considered, not terribly unhappy with their proximity to each other. He worried a bit less when there was the reassuring sounds of breathing, of being near enough to sense distress, and when if Sherlock needed something, he was quite literally within arms' reach.

He was curious, however, as to what had awakened him, and it didn't take long before he could hear noise streetside, from outside the flat. His acute sense of paying attention even when asleep was apparently still on high alert and functioning well.

He began to dislodge himself from under Sherlock's body, easing him as gently as he could so that he could slide loose to go check on things. A groan of protest sounded, rattling and indistinct, noise made from an exhausted patient with an irritated throat. He removed himself as quickly as he could then tucked the covers in where he'd vacated, holding in warmth, promoting rest as best he could. He rested his palm gingerly against the side of Sherlock's head, thumb stroking his temple and fingers massaging very lightly as he knew Sherlock liked and responded to. "Sshhh, I'll be right back." He took a few steps toward the door, grabbing mobile, slippers, and dressing gown as he did.

Just before leaving the room, John turned a careful eye to the still-slumbering man in the bed. One eye had opened, but there were no signs of distress, no panic, no anxiety. A nod, head burrowing slightly into the pillow. _Trust_. There were sounds of someone on the stairs, and John could tell by the steady trod and the weight of each step, it had to be Mycroft. Before the key could even turn in the lock, John casually opened the door, having run fingers through his hair and straightening his appearance up best he could.

"Good morning," John managed, hoping it was still morning and thought, based on the amount and angle of the lighting, that it probably was. "Did I miss your call, then?" He knew quite well there had been no call, and no text, and even before caffeine, he was not about to be inconvenienced without a bit of push-back. "You know, the advance notification you're supposed to give me." His turf, sort-of, his rules.

"And good morning to you as well. Sorry to have awakened you."

"Yes, well," John tried not to act as if Mycroft wasn't dressed to the nines while he was in a robe. "I presume you'd like to see Sherlock."

"I've been concerned." He made no move to sit or enter farther. "How is he?"

"Sleeping. Exhausted. Stable so it seems."

"Good."

"As I've asked earlier, I would prefer he'd not be woken up. Yesterday was, well..." and John beckoned Mycroft toward the kitchen table, elaborating briefly on the challenges and the anxiety and the ultimately successful procedure, not giving the full details of exactly how bad it had been nor his role specifically. "The heads up in the A&E was helpful, though. Your doing I'm sure. Thank you for that." At the slight tilt of Mycroft's head in acknowledgement, John found he had no interest in waiting longer. "I'm about to make tea. Can I fix you some as well?" Mycroft shook his head, choosing instead to sit down as John turned on the water, set out a mug and PG Tips. "So, here he is," John said then a few seconds later, raising the lid on the laptop and opening the monitoring application. Sherlock was as John had left him, seemed perfectly still and quiet.

"Interesting."

"What is?"

"That he's so far from the edge of the bed." Mycroft cast a look at John, a slight raise of one eyebrow and the faintest curl of one side of his mouth. "Unusual." John knew of course that Sherlock usually slept on one side, often hugging the edge, an arm hanging down. Today he was much more in the center, and the entire bed did look rumpled, slept in, even in the lower resolution of the camera monitor. "Wouldn't you agree?" 

"Do you have something specific you wanted to ask me?"

"There is no need, given the state of the pillow." John knew a smile flickered across his face, along with a slight shake of the head, but he did glance to the computer screen to find that the indentation of the other pillow was rather obvious.

"Would you like to go wake him up and receive assurances that my presence was completely above-board and proper? Because you can." Rather quickly, John made up his mind that he wouldn't shy away from anything, wouldn't give even the appearance of trying to hide anything. "If you're going to suspect anything beyond that, I would rather you did. In fact, I'm almost willing to go wake him myself."

"I highly doubt that is necessary."

"You didn't see how severe it was yesterday, by the way. His reaction to needing the hospital visit." The kettle sang out, and John brought the mug to the table to join Mycroft and where he could keep an eye on Sherlock via the laptop image. "It was quite ..." John frowned, word searching, settled on "... extreme, and I wasn't sure how things were going to fall. I take it you've seen him ... in a bad way?"

"I have certainly seen him at some very low points."

A small movement on the laptop caught John's eye, and both of them watched as Sherlock moved a bit in his sleep, an arm, the bend of a leg. "He would have been sedated and restrained had I not forbidden it." John kept his voice cool but knew Mycroft was getting the message that it was worse than imagined, quite the evolving drama. "Thankfully I was able to intervene." _No restraints_ , he'd all but snarled at the faintest hint of possibly needing them.

"It's happened before, as you know."

"Had that occurred, I fear he would have needed admission, psychiatric admission perhaps. The set-back would have been devastating."

"You prevented it."

"He needs professional counseling to overcome that. To give him some coping skills to manage without turning to ... some of the other things he turns to."

"I chose you for this setting. To be clear, are you quitting? Because may I remind you that there's a cont--"

"I know, contract. No, I'm not quitting, but this deep seated issue may need more intensive, targeted therapy. Cognitive retraining, exposure therapy...” John could hear muffled sounds, words, mumbling from down the hall, and turned to consider the laptop feed. Sherlock was still in the middle of the bed, but had pulled the duvet over his head, limbs either moving quickly or tremors having begun in earnest. There was a thump as he repositioned forcefully on the bed, the headboard hitting the wall and echoing as the sounds rarefied bidirectionally through the walls and from the doorway. “Excuse me.”

By the time John had arrived at the door, the duvet was back to his shoulders and Sherlock seemed to be slumbering. Even the monitor that had remained on was now reading normal values, consistent with sleeping. He added a pillow to the far side of the bed, quietly and cautiously, could see the relaxed nature of his face again. His breathing was deep and even. He returned to the kitchen, to find that Mycroft had steeped his tea, removed the bag, adding a half-spoonful of sugar, and then as John approached, pushed the finished cup in his direction.

"Half spoon of sugar. As is your usual preference."

"Thanks..."

"I know about most of your preferences, Dr. Watson." The unstated inference was written in the sparkle of his eyes, the knowing look in Mycroft's demeanor, his face, in case his emphasis of the word wasn't enough.

"John."

"Sometimes I prefer the title."

"And today you're reminding me to keep my distance." He made the statement. John wished he'd taken a moment to dress, feeling quite the dynamic at odds between them, the disadvantage of being wearing bedclothes to his visitor's well-cut suit. Though he was not about to be intimidated based on his attire, he was quite aware of it.

"You care about him."

"Of course I do." John shrugged with some irritation as he explained. "He's a patient. He's been through truly some unimaginable things. Needs a direction once he's recovered. He mentioned education, resuming studies in chemistry, by the way."

"He hated it. Hated the regimentation, the study, the academics. Was probably smarter than his professors. Can you imagine him in a traditional classroom?"

"Not exactly," John agreed.

"It was an abysmal failure, so don't encourage it."

"What I'd like, is to see him succeed." He left unstated that he thought Mycroft wrong for his lack of support. "I'll encourage him with whatever he's bloody interested in. If he feels inclined to," and here John gestured in frustration, searching, "I don't know, take up knitting, I'd support it, and you should too." 

"I think we both know what he's _interested in."_ Mycroft smiled a half-smile of his own perceived wittiness. "Not chemistry per se. Not the subject, but the  _substances."_

John sighed, with a disappointed need to explain himself. Again. To someone who was being difficult for the love of being a royal pain in the arse. It had to be slightly genetic. "You know bloody well that's not what I'll be encouraging, nor recommending."

“I chose you for your integrity, for your success rate, for the way your mind has worked in the past with patients deemed unsalvageable.” Mycroft’s eyes are intense then, and he is gearing up in mind and body language to deliver something of prime importance. “I am letting you know that your contract is only for care. There are no other governing standards, you are not specifically held to traditional conventional methods, even considering non-approved, off-label as it were, ideas and interventions.” He stood, John's attention riveted, and turned a thoughtful, pensive eye to John as he sat, in his robe and slippers, holding his own. "So, no, to answer your question from earlier, I'm not reminding you to keep your distance. I'm merely asking that you have a care with his heart."

A moment of connection, of electricity, of eye contact that seemed to sizzle all the way to John's very brain. A flicker of a glance toward the laptop, a reminder of the discerned bed-sharing. Permission, encouragement, or instruction? "Exactly what are you ...?"

"I do not, nor have I ever questioned your ethics. So far, I have been quite impressed." John held his tongue, the many things he wanted to respond seeming inadequate and unnecessary. "And do not think for a moment that I say those words easily."

A rustle again, a soft sound, a footstep from the bedroom. Distantly, the pulse oximeter alarm sounded, a disconnect. Two sets of eyes snapped to the computer, the bed empty, covers folded back, a pillow haphazardly tossed on the floor. "John?" The voice was raspy, low registered, from the hallway. There was the swish of a hand on the wallpaper as he moved closer, a hand reaching out for balance and fall prevention, steadying himself along the wall.

On his feet quickly, tea and Mycroft abandoned, John rose to meet him, took his arm to hold him upright and prevent capsizing. He was indeed tremulous. "Couch, I think," he decided.

"I feel awful."

"Explain please."

"Get rid of him." With a tolerant smile and sure hands, John held Sherlock's shoulders as he slowly collapsed onto the couch. Long limbs fell and lay there, weak but not twisted. An adjustment of pillow, a repositioning of Sherlock's ankle, a smoothed blanket overtop. "Out."

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft purred, "such a charming host you continue to be. Dr. Watson and I were just discussing how positively wretched yesterday was for you."

"Piss off. And get out while you do it."

"Sherlock," John chided lightly, "go easy, would you. He was concerned, came to check on you, and isn't staying much longer. Yesterday wasn't easy for him either."

"Whose side are you on?" It was a caustic question.

"Do you really need to ask that?" John could only shake his head a bit at Sherlock's lack of any insight. "Yours of course."

Had his voice not been weak, his throat still sore apparently, the next word would have been a summons, a demand, a strongly issued imperative. As is was, a quiet word, singly spoken. "Mycroft."

"Yes, brother mine." This was delivered with a slightly condescending air, and John would have intervened had Sherlock not simply blown past it. Two standing men peered down at the closed-eyes reclining one, awaiting his statement.

"I want my violin."

Toe to toe almost, despite the difference in height, John and Mycroft met eyes again. Neither made a move nor spoke a word. Finally Mycroft broke the contact and took a few steps to stand at the foot of the couch, where Sherlock could see him more easily with his rather icy focus.

He spoke slowly, clearly. "This would be the same violin you'd used as a set up for some unwise and unhealthy choices?"

"This would be the same violin," Sherlock spat, "that is _mine_. It is being held unfairly."

John waited, quietly, letting the discussion play out around him. At this point, he felt no need to contribute to any of it. As to the violin, he had considered hiding it in the flat, but decided that Mrs. Hudson's flat, on the floor beneath them, was a much wiser option.

Sherlock, from the couch, turned, annoyed, huffed again. "Dr. Watson works for you. And he is obligated to do whatever you demand."

With a particularly challenging look to him, Mycroft rocked slightly on his heels, swiveled to make and maintain eye contact with John. "Is that so?" He asked the question rhetorically to the room, and again, John had little interest in answering that.

"He is an _employee_." The word might as well have been slug, vermin, pond slime.

"That seems harsh, given how he helped you yesterday." A brow arched. "Above and beyond, from what I hear."

"My violin." Sherlock was not distracted. "Unfairly held."

The twitch at the corner of John's mouth seemed to amuse Mycroft just a little, and they both seemed rather content to let Sherlock fuss just a little.

Which he did, when he'd apparently grown tired of waiting for someone to cater to his demand. "It's mine, and I want it returned."

Mycroft backed down from John's focus, his watchful eye, and turned away just a little. There was a resolution, a serious moment of clarification. "I believe its return will be up to your physician. When he feels you are ready and deserving, it would appear. At his sole discretion. And not a moment sooner."

There was an abrupt turn on the couch, an unpleasant reaction, and Sherlock took a deep breath as if he were about to launch into a scathing diatribe.

The first syllable was hardly even sounded when Mycroft held up a hand. "Not another word, Sherlock. Not one. Out of not only your hands, but mine as well."

Sherlock's quiet receiving of that edict was, in John's opinion, ominous. A few more exchanges with Mycroft, casual and shallow. The farewell to Sherlock was not exchanged, but not a long pause as Mycroft waited, either, hand on the doorknob.

"Wait."

Which Mycroft did.

"I need a new mobile."

A short burst of staccato non-laughter. "So that you can ring up some of your miscreant, _degenerate_ connections and have them obtain whatever your poison of the month is? I rather think not."

"Between the lot of you, I'm sure you could monitor my usage if you were willing. You know, like the child you continue to treat me as." They were both sliding toward harpish and John cleared his throat to no avail.

"If the shoe fits."

"Twat," Sherlock breathed. "Not wearing any." A bare foot poked out of the blanket as if he needed to prove something they already knew.

"May I remind you of the difference between literal and metaphorical devices?"

"Piss off."

"Sherlock, that's enough." John chided, gently as he could but he was glaring at Mycroft. "You too. Before you hinder his recovery any further." For all that John had wondered about anyone ever saying no to Sherlock, apparently it was also a rarity that Mycroft was spoken to, corrected, either, given their somewhat shocked, puzzled looks. "He's recuperating, or trying to, and this is not helpful in the least."

A few breaths passed. "Mobile." Sherlock said again, with intensity.

"I believe I already said no to that." Mycroft's posture seemed to stand down a bit, and he expounded. "While I could of course intercept your every text, search, or mobile record, it has not escaped me that you very likely have a contingency plan, a code as it were, for occasions such as this."

Had John not been watching, he'd have missed Sherlock's rather cheeky grin that was fairly quickly hidden, probably attesting to the fact that Mycroft had assumed correctly.

"However, Dr Watson knows how to make that happen. Again, when he determines you're ready, I will see to it that one is provided for you."

++

"So how are you really? Not the fussy game face you put on for your brother."

In answer, there was a squint and a slight cock of his head, the curling of one side of his face. "All right."

"Earlier you said awful."

"Well, I definitely don't feel like myself, but I haven't for a long time now." An exhale, and Sherlock's eyes closed. "Somewhere between awful and all right."

John smiled in spite of the subject matter, and shook his head. "Helpful. A rather wide range, yeah?" John turned on the telly again, settled on an episode of Top Gear which elicited a groan from Sherlock but nothing further. "Up for a piece of toast now or do you want to wait a bit?"

Blink. Only his eyes moved to stare at John. "Those are my only two options?"

"They are."

"Then I'll wait." There was a faint growling of Sherlock's stomach. "No, seriously, not all that hungry right now."

It was several episodes, a nap, and two cups of John's own finished tea along with his breakfast, before he finally decided that Sherlock's later had come to fruition. He set a small plate down in front of him, toasted light brown, butter nicely melted, cut on the diagonal to form large triangles.

"Dull."

"It's later. You said you would wait a bit."

"Truly, not hungry."

"Putting something in your stomach would be wise."

There was an unintelligible whisper.

"Again please?"

"No thanks." He'd definitely changed his original message.

"I missed what you said the first time." John drew a bit closer, perched on the edge of the coffee table to place a finger under Sherlock's chin to tip his face upward so John could look at him directly. Sherlock huffed, but he allowed John to poke at him a little, drawing down a lip to evaluate the colour of his gums, press a palm to his forehead, and finally a few fingers to his wrist. Temperature seemed normal range, pale still but not alarmingly different, heart rate acceptable. "Say again?"

"Leave it." Sherlock moved not a bit, though he left his hand in John's grasp, moving his other hand to tuck the blanket in around him, pulling it close, wrapping. Burrowing, _hiding?_ His eyes closed as John watched him.

The pulse rate under his fingers jumped up, the faintest little bit of perspiration on Sherlock's brow. It only took John a moment. "Are you afraid to eat?"

One eye opened. The pause drew out a little, and then, "Wouldn't you be, if you were me?"

"A little, I suppose. But the bleeding had stopped last night, the tear already beginning to close, as they tend to do." John smiled down at him reassuringly. "Look, the way these things usually work is that the rebleed risk lowers exponentially over time. So the longer you've lasted, the less likely it is to occur."

"What if it happens again?"

To that question, there was no good answer. And John didn't want to verbalise the one they both knew: we do it all over again. "Maybe something to drink, then."

"All right." There was a few assortments of options that John had stocked up on, so he brought out a few small glasses of different flavours. It gave Sherlock the ability to choose, to have some measure of control.

"You realise," John began, "that as long as there is no vomiting, it's extremely low risk of it recurring at this point. I would, however," and he paused until Sherlock looked up at him, "absolutely avoid the mixing of chemicals that you know you shouldn't, yeah?"

"Perhaps." John wondered about hinting at his mistake, and was quite glad to see that he had the wherewithall to at least blush a little in automatic response. Another moment, and Sherlock picked up one of the pomegranate varieties of juice. After draining the small glass, he eyed the toast but didn't move a muscle.

"You can certainly go ahead if you want."

"You always harp about protein. Why no beans on that?"

It was true, that John had fairly regularly heated and served beans on toast; today, the toast was plain. "You want the straight up reason or the watered down one?"

Scowl, the pursed lips speaking that Sherlock thought that premise utterly ridiculous.

"All right, well, you probably ended up swallowing some blood, the blood in your stomach will be only partially digested, passes through of course. When it reaches the colon, it tends to act as a laxative. Old blood, a normal enough circumstance." Sherlock's wide pale eyes took in what John was saying, his expression as if he wanted the full story. "It demands to come out. Beans have that effect too, and I didn't want there to be any distress, any urgency, if we put beans on top of that process already brewing. I thought both of those in combination would be a bit much ..."  

On cue, there was a much louder grumble than before, ominous in the pause in conversation. "Good lord, seriously?"

"Probably. Soon. It's normal, it'll pass --"

And with that word, Sherlock moaned a bit with an undertone of an incredulous, disbelieving half-giggle. "You're kidding me, right?"

"-- and all will be fine." Unfortunately, the word fine was not as convincing as it should have been, and Sherlock's senses immediately picked up on it.

"Seems to me you're still holding something back. What are you not telling me?"

John pondered.

"Out with it."

"Well," John began, and there was another louder, lower rumble of Sherlock's stomach. "Let's just say that we'll both be appreciative of the room freshening spray in the loo."

"We'll _both_?"

"Do you have delusions that I'm actually going to let you close the door?"

"Oh please." Sherlock's eyes were closed, a hand disappearing under the blanket, obviously some stomach cramping was going on, given the sounds and his reaction. "No."

"No getting around that, either. We've seen what you're capable of when left to your own in there." John raised a displeased eyebrow then. "And I know this isn't great timing, but I am informing you that the next time Molly is over, the next time you see her, you will be apologising to her for your little stunt the other day. Bad form."

 _Pffft!_ he breathed, followed by, _"Fine."_ Then, still a little bristly from either the topic or of being reminded about his misdeed, he spoke again. "That's ridiculous, and I'm not sure I believe you, anyway. How bad could it be."

"Believe whatever you'd like. Pass a little gas if you have any doubt." Under his breath, Sherlock muttered something that sounded like _hell no_. "GI bleeding smells awful on the way out."

"Well, if it's true, I need you to get Mycroft back here immediately."

John gestured as if he wanted Sherlock to continue. Sherlock simply stared at John, apparently waiting for him to grab his mobile and do as Sherlock asked. "Not without a good reason."

"Because if anyone is keeping me company in the loo, he's a viable choice. A better choice. I think that will make it more tolerable for you and more exciting for me."

"No, Sherlock. While that has some entertainment merit, we're not ... Just, no. You're stuck with me for company."

"Speaking of, feeling a little," and there was a pensive, drawing to Sherlock's features as he moved to a sitting position, a hand over what indeed was a faintly distended belly.

"All right, let me know."

"Anything else you neglected to tell me?"

"Did we discuss colour yet? Consistency?" Sherlock's pale eyes turned to John's darker ones, inquisitive but since he didn't actually ask the questions, John answered both anyway. "Black. And probably diarrhoea."

"Oh god, shut up."

"You sort of asked."

"This was not included when they asked for consent. Someone should have told me. I would have refused all of it, and maybe ..."

"I'm telling you now." Another low pitched, more rapid rumble, and Sherlock let out a soft belch. "But really, keep this in perspective. They saved your life, avoided the need for surgery. This is just ..." John shrugged, "expected. Temporary. I'll work its way through, pass. Don't make it into more than it needs to be."

"You started it."

"You asked about the beans."

"You could have just said that we're out of them." Idly, one of Sherlock's hands rubbed over his lower abdomen. "It's what someone polite would have done."

John had been called a lot of things, and could summon up polite when circumstance indicated it. "I prepared you. Somehow I don't think you're especially fond of surprises."

"Maybe white powdery ones. Now that would be a surprise."

The light mood vanished. "Just stop that. Your thinking patterns are problematic." Though Sherlock had likely been attempting to be humorous, there was an element of truth and a disturbing line of thinking. John let his foot come up against Sherlock's, there on the floor. "I'm worried about you. And about your choices."

"Well, in a minute, you're going to probably to need to worry about finding that room spray."

"That's fine."

"Normal to be kind of crampy?"

"Blood makes itself known and demands to come out."

++

"God, you weren't kidding." Sherlock had complained, protested and been unsuccessful in his repeated attempt to ban John from the room while he was otherwise occupied. Ultimately, John had hovered in the hallway, door to the loo open, paying minimal attention but close enough to prevent either misbehaving or injury if Sherlock became dizzy and toppled over. There had been room spray, vigorous hand washing, and a few marginally inappropriate bursts of chuckles from both of them at one point, shortly after Sherlock observed that his eyes - and John's - were watering. By request, John had cracked open one of the sitting room windows just a little to let in some fresh air. After Sherlock had been safely ensconced on the couch again, John gestured toward the window. "Become a regular thing, opening the window. The bleach and vinegar experiment, and now this."

"A cigarette, then. A trifecta."

"No."

"Obviously. Though I wouldn't have refused if you'd agreed."

John could only smile at Sherlock's persistence. "You are feeling a little better, though, yeah?"

"Sort of, yes. But you weren't kidding about ..." and he cut off his own sentence, choosing instead to end with, "Wow."

John couldn't help grinning at his shocked, rather humbled expression. "I tend to be honest. You should know that."

"Let's never speak of this again."

"Fine." He nodded toward the toast after another moment. "Start with that, if you would, and then perhaps I'll be most cooperative in changing the subject."

"Is that something of a threat?"

"I think I would choose creative encouragement."

"Extortion?"

"I think that involves money."

"Coercion?"

"Perhaps." John sighed. "Take a bite and the exact terminology won't matter as much."

Surprisingly, Sherlock complied. "So," he said with also out of character cooperation and having another bite, "while you're tending to be honest, you could tell me the story of what happened with that incident -- no, misconduct report."

"You could tell me about the scars on your back instead." John was not interested in discussing the army incident, his reporting of the sexual assault of the sergeant who'd harmed the young boy, but he wasn't about to simply let Sherlock get something he wanted for nothing, not in this case anyway.

A stand-off, but a calm one with very little emotion on either of their parts, both choosing not to engage. The moment seemed to vacillate between them, as to who was going to give in, who might open up first, when Sherlock finally grinned, relaxing again into the couch cushions again. The plate in front of him only had remnants of crust. "So," he began again, "how long do the GI bleed effects..." and he drew out the word knowing John would immediately know to what he was referring. The scent. "... typically linger?"

The question was good for a mutual laugh, the decision to avoid the more personal subjects and stick with the merely distasteful ones. Some street noise - fender bender, followed by some rather vigorous arguing outside - distracted them from all of the previous topics of discussion. 

++

Sherlock did manage, with quite a bit of encouragement, to stay awake in longer stretches over the next day or so. He managed to eat fairly regularly, just small meals that were gentle and bland initially. His IV site had long been removed, and John sent off another blood count to the hospital lab for haematology testing. Results came back quickly, and both were pleased to find that it was holding stable. John was particularly grateful, given that Sherlock was probably still borderline anaemic when the Mallory-Weiss tear occurred. The shaking seemed less as time went on, with him a little more ambulatory though still napping several times a day. Rebuilding his energy level, they both knew, was going to be slow. They had animated discussions about something John read online every now and then. Between the two of them, they argued about meals and the shopping and the qualities of their favourite Dr. Who actor.

The remaining unread portions of the book dwindled, the plot of Bod and the graveyard and the sinister characters winding its way through the pages. John picked up the book, thumbing through the last few unread pages as if counting them. "We can probably finish it this sitting."

"I already know the ending. Predictable."

John smirked. "Good. Then recount it for me, starting from where we'd left off. Since you already know, you can certainly fill in the details."

Apparently Sherlock hadn't completely expected that, his face a bit stunned, and the way he'd sprawled on the couch much more tense. "Well, I uh... could summarise it for you, the plot."

"I kind of prefer more than a summary, ta. So go ahead, and leave nothing out." He closed the book completely and set it aside, turning his body and his attention to Sherlock in mock anticipation. He let the silence draw out to prove his point. "Well?"

"I think Bod was about to..." he said and gestured at the book, putting his arm across his face, his eyes, rotating on the couch so he was on his back. "Solve the mystery and leave the graveyard of course. The end." A slipper dangled on his toe, bouncing nervously with the movements of his toes, and John reached out his own foot, flicked it off, leaving Sherlock's foot bare. "Hey."

"Hey yourself. Sit up and be nice while I read the book, thank you very much." He spoke kindly as Sherlock did indeed replace the offed slipper. "Plus, you can't see the pictures with your arm thrown over your eyes."

"I told you..."

"All the same to you, I think I'd rather let the author finish his own story, ta."

++

"Ugh, that ending. What was that all about?" Sherlock whinged.

"So, he gave him a passport and money, and off he popped." John clarified.

"And a name. He gave him a name."

"... 'and Bod walked into it with his eyes and his heart wide open' is the last line."

"You read it already, ta." Sherlock was snippy.

"Symbolic?" Tapping the book, John wondered why the snit was so pronounced.

"Over the top, trying too hard. The better end would have been from the song, 'leave no path untaken'. The one his mother used to sing to him."

"But then the final plot wouldn't have been disclosed."

"Of course, but it was obvious, the author didn't need to spell it out in quite such ridiculous and predictable words."

"People want to be told things, so it's clear. They need to be sure."

At one point during the early stages of John's reading, Sherlock had casually patted the couch next to where he was sitting, and John had abandoned the chair, moved over. It was easier than flipping the book around to show the illustrations. But both of them were enjoying it for reasons far beyond convenience. It was cozy, friendly. The togetherness was beyond proximity, it was a statement of devotion, of warmth, of sharing a space and _more._ There was a hitch of Sherlock's leg, of restless movement there on the couch, where they were side-by-side, and he let it bump softly against John's thigh, left it there, leaned in gently. "There are plenty of ways to say something without using words."

Heat began in John's chest, just a bit, settled across his arms, radiated outward and down. It was more than Sherlock's touch, the muscle and warmth of his leg. It was more than the timbre of his voice and the sass of their conversation. It was more than the pale blue irises, pupils dilating as he watched. Warmth from where their shoulders were close, where their legs touched through clothing seemed to increase, and John was full stop aware of the point where the outside edges of their knees were pressed together, lightening up a few inches along their thighs before there was visible space between where they were sitting. Sherlock's tee shirt had bunched up at one edge of his waistband, and the dressing gown he was so fond of was untied and hung open. It was the totality of the man - the zest, the snark, and all the rest. He met Sherlock's eye, steady, even, full on. "Oh, is there something you wanted to say?"

A deep chuckle, a baritone of a musical laugh. "I believe I've already said it." He glanced at John's chest, his stature, the way his shoulders were back, a glance at his belt, lower. "And I believe the message was already well-received." There was a rather bold look about him again as he raised his eyes to meet John's. "Or am I mistaken in that?" 

John's mouth was a bit too dry for an immediate comment, and eventually he muttered something about making the shepherd's pie that Sherlock had requested, then moved into the kitchen to get started on it.

++

"You're being ridiculous."

From across the darkened bedroom, John tucked his own blanket up to his chin, laying on his side on his own cot, listening to Sherlock grumble.

"What if I need something?"

"I'm fairly certain, Sherlock, that I can probably attend to your needs just as well from over here. Do you need something?"

"No, but ..."

"Then please make an attempt to fall asleep?"

"I slept better when you were next to me. Warmer or just... I don't know. I just _did_."

"You're better now, there's no reason ..."

A deep, warm chuckle floated in the darkness. "There's lots of reasons." The lower baritone register of his voice, the intentional gravelly character to it, was rattling and John suppressed the notion that he would probably be able to feel that right through his ribs. If, that is, he placed his hand there as Sherlock talked. Which he couldn't do from where he was, which, he knew, was where he needed to stay.

For lots of reasons, as Sherlock had said.

"Sherlock." He tried for logic. "It's late. Maybe tomorrow you'll have more energy, provided you get a few uninterrupted hours of sleep tonight."

"All right. I want to do something fun tomorrow."

"Sure. We'll start with a shower, and you can get dressed. Maybe coffee at Speedy's again."

"Your definitions of fun need serious overhaul."

"I'll work on something."

"I have an idea."

"I'm sure you do. And I'm fairly certain it's either illegal or unethical or foolish."

"You wound me to the quick."

"Please. Sherlock, please. Try to go to sleep."

A huff, a gather of bedcovers, a harrumph as he turned over away from John. From only a few feet away, from the comfort of his pillow, John smiled. He was doing that more and more as Sherlock's personality, fiery and unpredictable though it was, was emerging. Though his mind settled, his body relaxed. He had a fair idea of what the night was going to hold.

He was not disappointed.

Hours passed. A faint disturbance in the room, and John was nearly instantly awake. Across the room, it was silent. The outline of Sherlock's body in repose was just faintly visible from the middle of the night just barely visible glow from behind the curtains. It was too quiet, too perfect. So holding himself completely still, his respirations deep and even, he waited. An inhale, a faint rustle of fabric, too smooth and quiet to be that of a sleeping, reflexive turning in bed. The dark profile of two long legs appeared from under the duvet, the torso sitting up, the deliberate removal of the sheet.

"Need the loo, do you?" John said.

"How do you do that?"

"It's a gift."

"A curse."

"Depends on your perspective." He sighed, pushed up on an elbow. "Now, do you need the loo, or were you just hoping to slide into my bed next to me?"

"That is not a bed."

"Answer my question."

Stony silence.

"Realise if you say loo, I expect you to actually go."

"False alarm."

"I thought so." A few minutes passed, both of them awake, but John hoped perhaps he would relax again. "Want me to put some music on quietly?"

"No." A few restless turns, an agitated breath, a flumping onto his side. It didn't exactly bode well, and John was about to ask what was the matter when Sherlock cleared his throat again. "John?" His voice sounded a bit younger, then, and John waited for him to pull out the stops. The silence was heavy, and it seemed like there was something. Something brewing, something bothering him. Something.

"What is it?"

"I don't know." A quick breath of air, a regathering of thoughts. "I mean, this started out as, well, you know what it started out as. I was planning..., well. Anyway." Keeping quiet, John let him work through his thoughts, his feelings, find a way to express himself. "I'm just...  I can't sleep."

"Restless."

"Yes."

"I suppose, before all this, if you were feeling like this, you'd be using?" He spoke softly, hoping not to offend, but a curious, thoughtful question.

"Yes." Even his exhale was now sounding shaky.

John tucked a pillow behind him, fully awake now and on high alert. "So, what are some things you can do instead?"

"Nothing. There's nothing." John was about to speak again when Sherlock continued. He was getting worked up, voice pressured. Even from across the room, John was fairly certain he could feel the tension. "My head is loud, and ..."

Abruptly, before John could even respond to what he was doing, Sherlock had thrown back the covers, lunged to his feet and strode from the bedroom all in a bundle of energy.

John was after him, and had just enough time to get his foot into the bathroom before Sherlock could try to shut the door. "Don't do it."

"Get out." Sherlock was pressing the door, trying to close it, trying to force John's foot out of the way. He lacked both leverage and strength, but didn't stop trying.

"Sherlock, no." There was a guttural cry, and Sherlock, in his still rather weakened state, gave up, his arms letting go and he braced himself as he leaned over the sink, head bowed there in the bath. Something inside John however, had some warning bells chiming distantly, his radar searching, and he began to let go of the door, gave the slightest impression that he was going to pick up his foot and move it back out of the way, when Sherlock seemed to detonate. The quick way he sprung into action, trying to dislodge John, to close the door, was all John needed to know he was being played, at least in that moment. "Absolutely not, you're not getting away with that." Still struggling at the door, Sherlock no match for John of course, and eventually did let go for real. "Back off," John ordered, and when Sherlock did, he matter-of-factly, but gently took him by the wrist to lead him out to the sitting room. "This is where the work starts. You can do this."

"Oh, god, just get away from me."

John led him to the kitchen instead. "How about you put on some tea?" Blank, incredulous eyes stared back at him. "Some tea, Sherlock. You know how to make tea."

"Your job."

"Tonight, it's yours."

"You suck. Your program sucks, your plan sucks, your stupid pyjamas suck." There was a fierce restlessness, and Sherlock was about shaking as he even stood there. "And," desperately he looked at John with wild annoyance, "and your hair sucks."

Trying not to be condescending, John asked, "Do you feel any better? Did that help?" With wry awareness, he needed to make a concentrated effort not to straighten his hair at Sherlock's comment.

"And your questions suck."

"Make me some tea, please, Sherlock."

John was somewhat surprised when a shaking finger reached out, flipped the switch of the kettle. "I want a cigarette, then, if you won't let me have the good stuff."

"Not inside the flat."

"I smoke in here all the time."

"Not with me you don't."

"Your methods suck too."

"Two mugs, yeah?" The ceramic chattered as Sherlock set it down. The kettle was beginning to steam, just faintly, as the water began to heat. "Grab the box of tea, then, will you please?" He complied, tried to look at John, tried to make eye contact but was unable. "Good job."

"Oh fuck you. Empty praise."

"The swearing, I have to say, doesn't become you." The words came out before John could stop them. "Oh, oops. I'm sorry for that, now's not the time to be fussing at you. I'm sorry."

"Fuck you again. Better?"

"Sherlock please." Sherlock fidgeted, arms crossed, a hip leaning against the countertop. John knew he was treading lightly when he asked, softly, "How long do the cravings usually last?"

"Until I do another line. Or take another hit, depending." A laugh. "I have no idea, actually."

"Guess we're going to find the answer to that question then." He took the sugar from the cabinet, set the honey out so it was ready, found two spoons. Trying to at least act casual, he made sure to speak slowly, carefully. "Sometimes it's helpful to think of the three Ds of dealing with cravings. Ever hear of them? Want to take a stab at them?"

"Do it, dose yourself, and ... don't stop using."

"Not exactly, as I'm sure you know. No real guesses? All right, the third one is for when you're feeling a little less jittery, so we'll save that, but the first two might help. Delay is the first one, meaning is obvious. You note the time, and delay the urge by a set period of time. It's - wow, early - three am. Do you think you can delay the craving for maybe thirty minutes? Sixty minutes?" John was standing right alongside of Sherlock, a hand holding securely on his upper arm, watching intently. If ever there was a danger night, a risk of relapse, they were both dancing around the edge of the volcano of it right then.

He rolled his eyes as John was speaking. "Stupid."

"They might be, but if they help does it matter?" He moved his hand to Sherlock's face, turning it to face him. "Well, think we can delay this for thirty minutes?" A hesitation, a faint nod, a brief meeting of the eyes. "All right. In thirty minutes, we'll talk about it again. Delay the craving."

Conversation halted as the water boiled, teabags were steeped, and a few minutes later, mugs were being carried - by John, given the state of Sherlock's tremors - back to the sitting room. "Carry on, I know you're on a roll and wish to further bore -- oh, I mean enlighten me." Sherlock picked up the mug as if to sip but the shaking was too pronounced so he returned the mug to the table, for which John was grateful, not looking to add burns to the list of things they experienced together.

"You can probably guess the second one."

An inhale, and Sherlock closed his eyes, tipping his head back toward the ceiling, a steadying breath for which John was also glad to see. "Distract."

"Right, I figured you knew."

"Pointless. It's almost impossible to redirect my mind."

"What's worked in the past?"

"Nothing," he answered quickly. "Not ever."

"Suppose we're at your parents house..."

"No thanks."

"Just suppose we were, and you couldn't ..."

"I'd excuse myself and take care of things."

"It's the middle of a big gathering and you can't get away to get your supplies. You could probably find another room of the house, or something outside might hold your interest. What are some things you could distract yourself with?"

"Violin."

Gently, John took one of his hands, held it up. "Cold fingers, very shaky, probably not going to work right now."

"Stable, one of the horses maybe."

"You used to ride."

"Quite a bit. Escapism from whatever nanny or stable boy they tried to pair me up with." A corner of his mouth twitched, and when John noticed, he thought it quite a good sign. "A good game, galloping away from someone who's supposed to be minding you."

"Glad we're not on horseback, then. You'd certainly leave me in the dust."

"In a heartbeat."

"Something else. Another idea."

A sigh of frustration. "There isn't much else."

John considered what he knew. There wasn't sports, he didn't want to encourage drinking, Sherlock was not necessarily a board game player. His knowledge of movies seemed to be more of the educational science variety. "Telly?"

"No."

He decided to ask anyway. "Card game, board game?"

"God no."

"Twenty questions?"

"I think you're already on question fourteen."

The tea was a bit cooler, and John sipped at his. "Want me to dump some of that out so it doesn't slosh over the edge?"

"I don't really want it anyway."

He leaned forward, patted Sherlock's knee this time, and thought perhaps Sherlock was a little calmer, beginning to de-escalate. "I know we just finished the other book, but until we come up with a few more ideas, I do have a copy of Treasure Island."

Sherlock flicked a glance at John.

"We had talked about it, one of your favourites?"

"It's three am."

"So?" John wondered if he was being thoughtful or just negative and looking for reasons not to start the book. "We're both up. Why not?"

"Can we read back in the bedroom, then?" Sherlock almost looked contrite at asking the question. "In case, you know, I do get sleepy." At John's questioning look, Sherlock shrugged. "There might've been a time or two when I was out of ... stuff, and there is kind of a crash, you know?"

"All right."

Though Sherlock absolutely wanted John to stretch out with him, and pouted when John wouldn't, John chose to pull a chair close to the bed, leaving Sherlock alone under the covers, the reading lamp on, and Treasure Island in John's hands. A few pages went by, but it seemed Sherlock wasn't able to pay attention too well, and at one point in the story, before the captain even got a chance to begin to make plans with Jim, Sherlock's eyes were closed. He was, finally, _blessedly,_ asleep.

++

"Up for an outing?" The morning had passed slowly, Sherlock was still lacking energy and exhausted, but this morning had been more productive than previous ones. They hadn't yet discussed much about the distress from the previous night, other than that Sherlock said he was feeling a little better.

"Please. I do not care for the park, or the tube, or any of the coffee shops within walking distance. I have no interest in ..."

"Get your coat, and get up. If you can complain that much, you're up for it." Matter-of-factly but grateful for the impetus, John stood up. "We're going out."

Fuss, complain, whinge - Sherlock tried it all but finally coats had been donned and they stepped out to the kerb. Sherlock spotted the car immediately. "I have no interest in joining my brother. None."

 _Me neither_ , John didn't say. "It's not him. I just arranged a car."

"Where are we going?"

"You'll come to it. Eventually."

"Library." John was silent. "Museum." "Cemetery." A little too much excitement when he pressed, "Morgue?"

"Get in," John finally said. "The destination will be rather obvious when we arrive at it."

It was only a few blocks, and the car stopped in front of a multi-story building. There was old, well-maintained brick, some wrought-iron work along the corners and precipices, a black railing by cement steps. "What is this?" and Sherlock asked as he turned to look for signage. "Wigmore Hall?"

"Well spotted."

"Fine, we're here. Now let's go home."

John left the car, door open, and stopped at the drivers side window, where he was handed an envelope, tickets contained therein as requested. He moved toward the building, not another word spoken to Sherlock. The front door, a couple steps, and he turned to wait for Sherlock. He didn't beckon, beg, gesture, or speak. He simply waited, hands in his pockets, calmly and without particular emotion.

His mobile buzzed.

**Raw talent, not worth it. SH**

John pondered that Sherlock was texting him. His mobile buzzed a few more times.

**Driver's mobile. SH**

**Bad idea. I don't want to come in. SH**

**You have more pressing obligations or something?** John responded.

**Might actually be terrible. SH**

**I happen to have heard the performer today is apparently quite good. Up and coming.**

**As if your opinion matters. SH**

**Talented.**

**Says you.**

**You'll never know if you don't come inside.**

From the main entrance, John gestured finally back at the car, an invitation as he opened the door to the building and waved wide his arm as if allowing Sherlock to enter ahead of him. There was no movement from the car, so John went inside and let the door close behind him. The driver, he'd already ensured, would go nowhere and had back up in case Sherlock got the inclination to be more difficult. For the moment anyway, John knew he didn't have the strength or the stamina to bolt from the car or take off on foot.

**Cretin. The driver won't leave. SH**

**Stay in the car then. I'll return after the performance, maybe an hour or so.**

**Boring. SH**

**There is another option you realise**

**I haven't mastered the art of self-combustion. Yet. SH**

A few of the concert-goers gave John an odd glance as they passed him to head into the concert hall as he laughed at the incoming text. An usher holding programmes caught his eye, a little shake of his head at the mobile, as if reminding John that it could not be used inside the ornate auditorium.

John glanced around, the rich wood and decor regal and understated. Wigmore Hall was one of the smaller concert venues in Marylebone, a place to spend the evening. There were several bars, a small auditorium, ornate stage, thick crimson curtains, spacious lobby. Their evening performances were usually a well-known music group, opera, or small theatre event, but the matinees tended to be smaller crowds, less expensive, and featured some very talented musicians either performing for graduation recitals or simply playing because they loved it as they waited for bigger and better discovery. Which happened fairly regularly.

He left Sherlock's text unanswered, letting him stew a bit in the car, hopefully stimulating his interest and his restlessness.

**I'll come inside but it's going to cost you. SH**

**That's not how this works.**

**It is today. SH**

**I'm not saying yes to that. Nor would anyone who knows you.**

**All right then. But I require motivation. What will you give me for coming in? SH**

**Satisfaction at doing what I expect of you. Self respect.**

**Boring. Tedious. SH**

**We will discuss the return of your violin if you stay the whole concert and behave. _Discuss._**

**Will you hold my hand during the concert? SH**

**I'm sure your brother will be delighted to read this later. If he's not monitoring my mobile, I'm fairly certain he is privy to the driver's mobile.**

**Will you? SH**

**Concert begins in ten minutes. I will go in without you. And I am taking your ticket inside with me, so I suggest you give the mobile back to the driver and get promptly inside.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Fanart!](https://madeleinefs.deviantart.com/art/Fanart-for-Beauty-from-Ashes-726687571)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Or copy and paste:
> 
> https://madeleinefs.deviantart.com/art/Fanart-for-Beauty-from-Ashes-726687571
> 
> There's fan art! And it's amazing. It conveys the tenderness and steady commitment of John while showing Sherlock is recovering. Check it out. Leave her some love! Thanks to the talent of madeleinefs for making part of this story come to life. I am overwhelmed.
> 
> \---  
> So, yeah, not to belabour the point, but there are certain characteristics to what happens after a gastrointestinal bleed.
> 
> I'm about five minutes out from hitting post, already found a little typo, tightened up a few things. Please let me know if you see anything glaringly wrong.
> 
> ____  
> Next chapter: Sherlock discovers something accidentally. And John sets something in motion. It just might not be what you think.


	14. Momentum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock continues to improve, physically, but John is concerned as he attempts to find an acceptable distraction.
> 
> ++  
> Recap: Mycroft hired John as an in-home medical consultant. Sherlock has progressed to being more active though his energy is low. They've struggled with eating, a relapse, deception, the repressed treatments Sherlock endured as a teen. He has recovered from a frightening development of a Mallory-Weiss tear, where John helped him deal with an unavoidable hospital procedure. Last seen, John was waiting for Sherlock inside a small concert hall.
> 
> Chance encounters ahead, and a past connection might prove significant...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The delay in updates is unavoidable. Apologies! I keep re-reading this, adding to it, wanting to rework some of it, and am posting before I get sucked into it again. If there are edits to be made, please let me know gently, and thanks for the encouragement, _always_!!
> 
> At the end of the work, more Fanart!!! It's amazing.
> 
> There is a violin piece at the concert John and Sherlock were ready to attend in the last chapter, an encore. If you like a bit of the background or would enjoy listening to the hints dropped in this chapter, I was listening to a violinist playing F. Chopin - Nocturne in C# minor, and then some more plot happened.
> 
> Click here [Nocturne](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gcrj3snFjJA)
> 
> Yes, I am quite aware that the violinist has brown curls.

The musicians were loud and commanding despite their small number. Eight stringed instrument players and several percussion members who played an assortment of complimentary, background fill, a creativity with sound that John had never seen, heard, or imagined before. They were very much in sync with each other, cued by breathing, slight movements, an inhale at a key point, or a more obvious nod or countdown of one of their hands. Musically, their performance was crystal clear, sharp, carrying throughout the concert hall with no amplification required. Attendance at the lunchtime matinee was sparse, though there were clusters of small groups. Had John been more interested, he would have suspected a ladies book club, a sixth form music theory class, a group of professors, a theatre performing arts field trip, a couple on a lunch date, a man trying to impress a much younger interest, secretary perhaps. And he would have looked around more, but his eyes and his attention were divided between the stage, which was certainly worthy, and Sherlock, whose demeanor was not only fascinating and drawing, but riveting.

Sherlock sat still, taking it all in, positively enthralled. Enraptured. The musical ability, the performance, the song selections, all had him held in powerful clutches. Occasionally he would breathe a complimentary word or two to John; most often he would simply sit, watch, his entire body practically humming. Long fingers held a programme, occasionally during a brief break between songs reading about the history of a piece, or comparing one of the arrangers from an early number to a later one, a page held splayed, the front cover curled back. 

But mostly, just... focused.

There was an ovation at the end, and an encore.

The encore was well worth the (reasonable) price of admission, and John had a brief twinge of pity for those who had already slipped out. Not much, though, _eh, their loss_. It was also not quite John's undoing, listening and watching and feeling, but close. The shining star of the concert. One musician, a violinist, had swapped instruments with one of the stage crew, who carried out an older, more vintage instrument, exchanging the first violin carefully, fading into the background in his black stage attire. The swap was so smooth, John only noticed it because it had commanded Sherlock's notice, when Sherlock couldn't stop staring. The violinist, a gentle smile about him, moved to centre stage, the lights dimmed, the rest of the orchestra drifting back into a semi-circle behind him just beyond the stage spotlight. Secondary, background, accompaniment. The violin in his hand, quickly tuned to perfection, a final check to see that the rest of the ensemble was ready, rang out in clear, crisp melodies while the rest of the instruments simply carried a long, drawn out, background chord or some fill, a muted, complimentary foundation. The piece had no description in the programme, and John didn't recognise it but did suspect it to be a highly significant work just given the expression and how personal it seemed, and clearly there was a story unfolding in the music, a tale of hardship and resolution. It bent, and yearned, and twisted, mourned.

It wailed, it peaked. Dissonant chord, a slide, a hold, minor diminished chord though John couldn't have named it.

it settled, swelled again, fuller, and then a few notes resolved. It waned slowly. It _healed_.

As the final notes, the overtones held, held, _held_ , then began to dissipate, John was acutely aware of his adjacent seat. Reaching a quick hand to cover Sherlock's, his skin sliding warmly over Sherlock's, their connection. He leaned very close, his other hand touching his upper arm as their bodies touched, and whispered with a degree of urgency, _"Breathe!"_

Slow exhale, the words light as air, a hitch in his throat as he whispered, "Perfect." He did as John requested, breathed in, out, in. "Oh my god, did you hear that violin? Oh, the warmth of those strings, the precision? The tale? The story inside the music?"

Around them, there was standing, applauding, shuffling, milling, but neither man paid much attention. House lights went back on. Truly, the performance, the encore specifically, had taken Sherlock's higher functions, his words. It was impossible not to watch him, his reaction, his full-body response, the emotion of his face, his speech reduced to exclamations interspersed with the inability to communicate, all of his body gushing with and without needing words.

Idly, John's thumb brushed easily, relaxed, over Sherlock's hand that he was still holding, lazy circles. Up on the stage, where Sherlock's attention was mostly focused, the musicians were chatting, but John could tell that Sherlock was somehow revisiting, recalling the sensation of their craft, their artistry. With slow, understated movements, John turned his hand so that it slid inside of Sherlock's, their fingers curling, unfolding, twining together. _Will you hold my hand if I come inside?_ John was fairly certain that Sherlock hadn't even noticed, so taken was he with his musings, his thoughts. He was certainly not in a rush to leave, content to bask in the harmonic remnants certainly still lofting about the hall.

His thoughts must have eventually quieted, and many had already left. Sherlock's eyes caught John's then, as if noticing that time had passed. Smiling, John squeezed his hand loosely, gently, and both pairs of eyes darted their glances downward to see the clasp of hands. "You fussed when I asked about this!" Sherlock accused.

John leaned close, their breaths almost meeting. He could faintly catch scent of Sherlock's shampoo, his aftershave, the poncy deoderant he wore. "Maybe I did. But I never said no, now, did I?" And so with that said, he let his fingers loosen, and their hands separated. John stood slowly, as if ready to leave but not in a rush.

Sherlock was still quite pleased with the music, but not too good-natured that he couldn't continue to complain, lightly picking at John's knuckles before dropping the extremity again. "If I'd known it was going to be that easy, I'd have made the bargain for something much more fun."

Their driver was waiting, as had been arranged. Holding the door for John and Sherlock to slip inside, the driver was fairly careful to note the pleasure on Sherlock's face and just as carefully conceal any response to it, keeping his comments to himself. In the back of the car, John could finally sigh with relief. Sherlock had not caused a scene, had eventually given in, done as requested, tolerated the activity, had managed a crowd and an outing. Making progress, he thought to himself as he watched Sherlock staring out the car window. 

++

The night was cold and windy, no hint of any rain for a change. His steps in his well-worn boots echoed as he searched for the familiar face, any face who could direct him to the next supply, next hit, next line.

"Oi!" came the angered yell from down the block. "Walk on! 'e's not here, and I'll call the coppers on you next if you don't _scram_!" There were more words that included damn drunk drugs and kids in it, but it was delivered with more excitement than clarity.

With something of a snit, Sherlock hollered something back, though the explanation - police involvement - seemed likely, that his source usually easily discoverable on this street, had been cut off. Or relocated, arrested. Damned inconvenient, now. Ignoring the yelling that continued at his back as he retreated, he turned his steps to an even seedier part of town. He'd find something worthwhile. Though his coat was thin, he pulled it around himself against the bite of the breeze, and had just crossed another side street when he heard it.

It grabbed his attention. A trick of an addled mind? An open window? Too remote for a nightclub. Standing taller, he turned in small circles hoping to hear it again.

Sounds on the wind and the echoing quality of the tones bouncing off building structures made for some confusion as Sherlock turned, seeking the loudest likeliest point of origin. He headed a different direction a few times, lost the music, turned around. Finally, it did grow a bit louder over the gusts, and he actually recognised the melody line as something from Dvorak, something classical. It brought back brief memories of music lessons and the warmth of his childhood home. Followed by more unpleasantness, not all childhood musical associations were pleasant, and he wished he had time to quiet his mind with chemicals before meeting up with whomever was playing. Because he was quite certain it was live and not a radio. He could just tell.

While life on the streets for the most part had taken away most elements of surprise, Sherlock was indeed caught off guard when he pinpointed the origin of the music, out of the elements best as could be done, and the person who was playing.

++ 

"You said we would discuss my violin's return."

"Are you ready for it?"

"I'd rather have a replacement mobile."

"Funny thing about responsibility, you have to earn it. Privilege, not an entitlement."

"Mobile, then."

"It's also not Let's Make a Deal. We were going to discuss the violin's return." A huff, a crossing of the arms, a slouching exhale, and Sherlock turned away. "I am quite willing, if it's something you're interested in and can assure me you're ready for. But it's not a bargaining chip. You do not trade this reward for something else."

"Fine."

"It's at Mrs. Hudson's, of course."

"Of course." The snippy echo had quite an edge.

"Before you get all in a snit, do you know why it's there?"

"Oh," he began, a slightly dramatic pause, "I'm sure you're going to tell me." With crossed arms, John continued to watch Sherlock, neither of them speaking a word for the moment. Sherlock grimaced, "Or you think you're going to make me tell you."

John waited, letting the moment draw out, deciding how he wanted to continue this discussion-turned-confrontation, and then choosing simply not to. "I'm not, actually. It's nothing we haven't already mentioned. You know why it is where it is." John let the subject completely drop, choosing not to let Sherlock's behaviour or words dictate John's plans, best he could avoid that happening anyway. "You can speak up, answer the question, or it stays. Your choice."

Where in the past few days, Sherlock's restless energy had been easier to refocus into something else, whether making snide comments about things he observed out the window or on the telly, or in a few slides he created to then view under the microscope, today he just couldn't settle. It was a few minutes at the window, a fussing at the drapes, a repetitive thumb-click on a biro from the desk, a manic rearrangement of one of the shelves of books.

From where John sat, pen to paper of Sherlock's file jotting a few notes on some of the printouts and records he kept (mostly that Sherlock looked at and complained about, tedious, boring, not in the least exciting), he watched as Sherlock rearranged the bookshelf into height order, and then, unsatisfied, alphabetical order.

"Sherlock," he finally cued when he thought enough time had gone by.

 _"What?!"_ His jaw changed shape as his teeth clenched. John let his gaze just rest on him, watching silently. "Yes, John?" The same vicious, caustic edge was still there.

"Are you sure you can't perhaps be a bit kinder with your tone?" The nastiness, the venom, he just couldn't quite let him get away with. "I actually don't think I quite deserve it."

"Not entirely."

Small shrug. "Honest," John stated. "Is there something you'd like to ask me?"

"I believe I was told that it was completely and fully up to you, so it matters not if I ask."

"Fair enough," John agreed, though he was concerned about Sherlock's sense of what was owed him. "Do you feel you're ready to have your violin returned?"

"Seems hardly likely I could send you out of the flat to fetch it again, once it's already here."

"Non responsive."

They met eyes, John's intent and watchful, taking in all of Sherlock's restless body language, his energy in search of an outlet. "Of course I am," and this time, his inflections were a little smoother and more patient. John, however, didn't doubt that it was all contrived, fake.

They were both quite aware that Mrs. Hudson was home, given the occasional sounds from below the flat, the telly, the chattering at times either at the show she was watching or occasionally on the telephone. Rising to his feet, John nodded, a smile that he hoped was encouraging, and he told Sherlock, quietly, "I'll be right back with it, then."

Which he was, violin case in hand, and the moment was electric, tingly, meaningful.

"What?" Sherlock said as John approached with it. "No sappy, sentimental words of wisdom?"

John knew that it had been humbling, the whole experience, the relapse, the way he'd been caught, and there were many things he wanted to say. "Nope. Just a quick reminder about trust." Sherlock's body was completely still, but he was focused and intent, completely attuned to John's face, a quick glance at the case, and back to John's eyes.

"You probably mean broken trust."

"I suppose, yes."

The case transferred hands, was set down immediately on the nearest flat surface. Sherlock did not immediately reach to open it, and John appreciated the moment that he was at least making a communication effort. "I expected more along the lines of once-bitten, twice-shy."

"Suit yourself." John watched the case being unlatched, Sherlock's elegant fingers perhaps a bit rusty at the handling he was doing. "I don't think you need me to make a speech."

"God no."

Over the next not even ten minutes, which ended up being as much stamina as Sherlock had in him, John found himself quite glad there were no interruptions for those brief moments. Because Sherlock somehow even managed to make tuning the instrument a delight to watch. Although John had only been up this close to a stringed instrument a few times, he found the posture, the carriage, the correct body positioning rather poised and graceful. But for Sherlock, also a strain. Sherlock had begun reconnecting with his instrument standing upright, feet spread, back straight, arms lifted into position, crisp. They both seemed to take on a different energy, symbiosis in action.

But it didn't last as Sherlock fatigued. Within a couple of minutes, John had moved to secure a tall stool, offer it to him, who smiled with gratitude and perched on it. But his arms never quite regained their earlier, higher lift, the posture required to play proficiently. As they sagged, so did the tone, the energy, the performance, which was some scales, a few runs or arpeggios, a smooth well known melody, a chorus of something John thought might have been written by Mozart, and then snippets from a couple of pieces, some of which John recognised while others were unfamiliar but no less beautiful. The last few measures, slower, soulful.

"You're getting tired, it's okay if you stop, you know," he finally said, approaching Sherlock again, and was surprised when Sherlock let him remove both instrument and bow from his now exhausted arms. They flopped to his lap, limp and tired as he slouched on the stool. "That was wonderful," John began, changed his mind on extending the compliment, and ended with, "Did it feel good, to play again after all this time?"

"It did," he said, breathy. "But, wow, muscle memory be damned, arms are killing me."

As John moved to where the case was still open, Sherlock took a few steps toward the couch and folded himself into it. A controlled, long-legged collapse. John brought the case to where it was in Sherlock's line of sight. "Wipe down with this?" he asked, pulling a velvet-like polishing cloth from the burgundy interior. Sherlock nodded, one eye open, watching John's hands move over the neck, bridge, body of the instrument wiping off the dust, bits of rosin, a stray strand from the bow. It was nothing short of a caress, hand over cloth circling, slowly and carefully stroking the highly polished spruce. One-eyed, watching and remembering, Sherlock was just slightly jealous of the violin.

++

"That's close enough," came the words, but they were not unkind. The violinist had paused long enough to speak, resumed the music again. Sherlock, even in his drug-hungry state, was impressed that the man could have fit the casting call for the original old man and the sea. Long beard, weathered skin, crusty wool knitted hat, and bulky sleeves. He was tucked inside an overhang near a deserted building. The wind was non-existent there in the lee of the building, and the cool air seemed quite a bit warmer without the wind chill effects. Wanting to be a bit closer, to hear better the tone and watch the fingering and the way the bow hair caught, raspy, on the strings, he did in fact heed the warning and pause, feet stilled, head inclined.

Listening.

The notes were smooth as honey, melodic and rich even in the outdoor makeshift amphitheatre, and Sherlock stood, hands wrapped around his coat and tucked under his arms as he listened to the continuation of the song. Another pause in the music, and Sherlock glanced at the man, who was now staring boldly.

"Food in that crate, if you're hungry." A quick arpeggio, the high note held. "Not much, but you're ..."

"Do you have...?" The mans sharp eyes turned his direction, piercing, threatening. Sherlock tried again, "I don't suppose...?"

"No. No stash, so don't bother looking. And no money, should you care to think you can toss me and find anything." He nodded once, kicking a short wooden box in Sherlock's direction. It was as close to an invitation, an offer as he was going to get.

"No thanks." Not getting comfortable, nor close, and definitely, Sherlock thought, not taking orders from anyone.

"Suit yourself." Conversation for the entire night was done, and Sherlock hung around for as long as the man played, helping himself to what ended up being a small apple and a piece of stale baked goods, probably a compassionate handout. But it hit the spot. And Sherlock, for his strung-out meanderings from earlier, found the music soothing and was actually disappointed when the man abruptly bagged the instrument, picked up what meager things must have been his own, and disappeared down the street.

Though he came back to the same place every night, hoping he would be there, hoping to hear him play, it would be five nights before Sherlock found him there again.

++

The black, hard shell case was fitted inside, the now shiny-again instrument tucked securely into the padded upholstered interior. Royal blue velvet in dark contrast to the black case, warm reddish-hued wood.

John moved the clip that held the bow in place, ready to put that away, and Sherlock protested. "You have to loosen it first." When John's fingers froze uncertainly, over the case, Sherlock added, "The bow itself, not the clip."

"Like this?" John's fingers found the tension screw, began to loosen it.

"Obviously."

"Hey, I trained on surgeon's tools not musical accessories." The horse-hair became less tight, relaxed in the thin dark wood, the arch of the bow looser, and John settled it into place within the case, slid the clip home, and it all snapped shut and was set aside. "Thank you, you know, might have been more polite."

"I didn't ask you to do that."

"What's got into you? I would have thought this," and John gestured, "playing, which was amazing by the way, would have been a good thing?"

There was another sigh, and John very much perceived sadness surrounding Sherlock. _Oh._

"You don't have to play, of course, if it makes you unhappy." John gentled, compassionate as he took a knee by the couch. "That piece, that one at the end, that was beautiful. I didn't recognise it." His fingers fussed at the blanket, straightened it, let his hand settle over Sherlock's arm and stay there. It was not shrugged off.

"Original, not mine. Best I can remember it, not quite as the genuine version but close. Written by someone I used to know." 

"It's sad, I think." John kept his tone carefully neutral, thoughtful, tender. "Beautiful, though. And apparently special to you?"

Sherlock looked away. Blinked.

++

Sherlock came a bunch of nights in a row, listened to music, never really spoke much to the man. He estimated the musician's age as somewhere between fifty and ninety, knowing that street life can prematurely age a person, that homelessness was hard, clothing and food were scarce, so it was hard to tell chronological age. One night, the man had paused, regarded Sherlock coolly, sizing him up, taking it all in. "Requests?"

"Chopin. Nocturne in C# minor?" There was a freeze, a contemplative hesitation, and Sherlock thought perhaps the man was unfamiliar, until there was a nod, a slow blink.

The man had smiled, then closed his eyes, breathed deep, put his bow to the strings and began to play. It was amazing. Honey and lilt and the swell of the ocean, the fall of quiet snow in all it's serene glory. Sherlock had grown accustomed to the acoustics of the makeshift, outdoor amphitheatre, where to stand for the best carrying tones, the sweetest amplification. The piece completed, two quick claps from Sherlock in applause, a distinguished nod from the man, whose eyes seemed younger, more lively. "Very nice."

"You play, then." The man pointed his bow in Sherlock's direction, punctuating his statement.

"Used to." It had been a long time since Sherlock had touched his violin, longer since he'd taken lessons. But the instrument was safe, stowed somewhere at his parents' home. At the way the musician stared at Sherlock, as if amused, entertained, an eye narrowed under the scrutiny, and suddenly Sherlock did not appreciate being deduced. "How'd you know?"

"Mostly, a good guess. But your foot taps along, you know. Thought I caught your mimicking the fingering, bowing, on the piece you asked for. A fairly lesser-known piece. Studied it probably, then."

"Oh." Sherlock completely stilled, uncomfortable, his eyes glanced around as if considering taking off as if startled. His fingers splayed out, not wishing to give away anything further, and he crammed them back into pockets. There was a hole now in one of them.

"You might like this one, then, if the Chopin is appealing."

A mini-concert, then, of a softly building, slow, sad number. It wailed in all the right spots, finely crafted in the somber sections, and eventually ended with a flourish, a low tone, an ethereal ending that was resolute and bittersweet. "Beautiful. Composer?"

"Original work."

"Why are you on the streets? This could be your livelihood."

The man shrugged, his voice and shoulders defeated. "Bad choices, burned a bridge, too proud to..." There was a scuff of his feet, an adjustment of the instrument, a resigned inhale, exhale. "Not so different from you." The bow pointed accusingly in Sherlock's direction, just briefly, in the man's hands. His fingers, rough callouses but not old, as he pointed at Sherlock. Sherlock revised his age calculation to the younger side. Fifties, probably no more. The long fingers, elegant, confident, despite the living conditions, were well cared for.

"Will you play that again?"

"Maybe tomorrow."

And tomorrow, he did indeed play it again. And the day after. The melody lingered in Sherlock's mind, his brain supplying other harmonies, imagining more to the piece. It soothed, calmed, made him anxious to hear it again. It reverberated.

The following day, when Sherlock arrived, there was something different.

Very different indeed.

++

"Ever perform? Recitals, anything?"

"No." Sherlock flopped into the couch cushion, drawing his head onto the pillow that was there. While he was obviously not tired or looking to sleep, his tone had been quite closed. End of discussion.

"You're very good. The lessons must've ..."

"Just stop it."

John had a gnawing discomfort that he was restless, that the unsettled nature was going to be only getting a bit worse. "Interested in ...?"

"No. Nothing." Very close to a snarl.

The message - back off - received loud and clear. John lightened up, moved toward the kitchen. "All right then, I'm making tea, I'll fix you a cup. Maybe something on the telly?"

"Will you just leave me _the hell alone_?"

John stared, watching the cadence of Sherlock's chest rise, the shoulders moving with respirations. There was a shudder or two, a catch of his breathing, the tension of upset and of a mind whirling and unhappy. "I'd like you to listen to me a moment." Knowing Sherlock was indeed listening, John spoke quietly, soothing he hoped. "Another craving, I presume?"

"Idiotic question. Move beyond that and stop being so imbecilic."

"Delay, distract. Remember?"

"Yes, of course. And if you tell me the third one, the third bloody D is drink water or deep breath, I swear I might fling you out the window. Or myself. Or you first and then..."

"Stop. No, it's not, and I agree," John shook his head, coming closer and sliding to perch on the edge of the coffee table by Sherlock's position on the couch, "those terms are rather patronising, shallow. For some people, though, _effective_." He let his fingers brush lightly on the back of Sherlock's shoulder, barely touching and not moving. "Don't write them off completely, all right?" There was warmth emanating through the shirt to John's fingers, to where they were together, where John was reminding him he was not alone, not helpless, not so far away from anyone that he couldn't get help, couldn't get back. "Want to guess again on the other D?"

"Are you sure you don't want to grill me needlessly on the first two? Find out my delay intentions, come up with something else to distract me." He was manic, speech pressured, energy radiating and coiling and spiraling something fierce. "Although," and he sat up with a quick twist of his body, abrupt, grabbed at John, "I can think of something that would actually be a very welcome distraction."

He pulled, vaulted himself up, pulling rashly and fiercely grabbing at John, suddenly moving toward him at the same time. Caught off guard at least just a little, John did not gather himself together enough to resist until Sherlock had already pressed their lips together, hard.

The stronger by far, and with better leverage, John allowed the kiss to linger only the briefest moment, long enough to sense warm lips and taste his skin. He could feel Sherlock's sharp inhale, the stubble, the desperation through his very pores. He forced himself to breathe deep, bring his hands up slowly between them, and push calmly away. "Absolutely not." _Fuck off_ , would have been his first choice, but professionalism ruled the few seconds. "That is not on. And you know it."

"Distract me, then, and be bloody quick about it."

"I'd suggest a walk if you had a bit more energy." A groan from the couch. "Look, take a deep breath in spite of you mocking that earlier. You're all right." Though they were close, the only thing still touching was John's hand on Sherlock's arm, and he let him thumb stroke once, twice, a slow brush, a gentling. "Treasure Island?"

"No."

"Want me to take care of your shoulders, after playing, since they're sore?" He shook his head, but there must've been a flicker of interest, as he was not as emphatic as he could have been. "Oh, maybe your hands again, like before?"

A brief hesitation, and John could tell Sherlock was considering that though he kept silent.

Bloody stubborn git, refusing to ask for something offered, something he wanted even. "I'll grab the lotion, nail file. Relax, you'll enjoy it."

++

Sherlock had been anticipating his evening encounter with his musician acquaintance, had actually brought a pack of cigarettes, hoping to smoke and enjoy whatever was on the musical programme for the evening. That the music was not playing as he'd approached was not necessarily unusual, but the sight that greeted him was over the top alarming.

Two uniformed policemen. And a familiar, wool-capped body laying on the kerb. Ambulance attendants there but not acting urgently. _Oh god, no._ Retrieval, transport. Sherlock took the whole scene in at a glance, and spoke aloud before he thought better of it. "Robbery."

The taller officer spied him. "Oi, you there. What did you just say?"

"I said robbery." This, he delivered with a snippy, almost condescending air, staring at the hat, at the angle of the body - _defensive, protective_ \- and hearing the strange silence, the absence of music, the absence of everything, even the way the man breathed through sometimes congested sinuses.

"Who are you? And did you know this man?"

Sherlock could not have looked away from the man's lifeless, pale, colourless body if he'd tried. "I'm no one."

The other detective snorted perhaps in agreement, finally, at Sherlock's declaration. "Robbery? Ridiculous, actually. This guy's homeless, has nothing."

 _He has talent, he has promise, he has -- had -- a future._ Blink, the facts are changed, previous reality no longer the case. "His violin is gone."

"Violin?" A few steps, and the man with silver hair approached, sizing him up. Sherlock caught sight of the musician's hand, where he'd fallen, a few scratches on his knuckles, maybe a bruise already beginning. He must've been unconscious when he'd hit the kerb, with no attempt to break his fall and his fingers, _bowing hand, right hand dominant,_ splayed funny, swollen, one of them bent at an awkward - _clearly_   _broken_ \- angle.  The DI had spoken, Sherlock had missed it, and he was now looking at him impatiently, and obviously just going through the motions and not optimistic about getting any reliable information. " _Name_ please?"

"Mine or his?"

"Start with his."

"I don't know."

"Why did you need to clarify the question then, if you don't know?" The DI was now looking more closely, trying to ascertain if Sherlock was impaired, trying to check pupils, reactions, ability to maintain eye contact. "Yours then."

"I'm not telling."

"Get out, then, before I --"

The other detective intervened, the silver-haired one, without as much of an attitude. "Wait." To Sherlock, he turned, gentled. "I'm sorry about your friend."

"Not my friend."

A sigh, and Sherlock could sense the DI was already mentally packing it in. "Anything that could be helpful?"

"He loved his violin."

"Brand, anything distinguishing about it?"

"Notched, really etched across the scroll." When the DI looked puzzled, Sherlock added, "The piece at the top, where the tuning pegs are." The ambulance crew lifted the body to the stretcher, onto an unzipped piece of white plastic vinyl as Sherlock stared. "Used to be a musician, possibly professionally or close to it. Recent family argument, probably. Homeless less than six months."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"Last night."

Another sharp consideration, the other, nastier detective. "This is your dealer, is he?" The pocket tablet and biro came out again. "You guys working the streets together? I'll need your name, please. Now."

His feet were on the move without warning, a burst of motivation to escape, flee. Sherlock's familiarity with the area alleys and shortcuts came in quite helpful, evading the policemen. That and his long legs, loud on the pavement. When he reached a spot he felt safe in, having eluded the DI following him, no feet approaching, the street anonymously silent and annoying, he paused. Sherlock wondered about the violin, who'd taken it, and if they'd appreciate the fine quality of music it was able to produce, when it occurred to him that it was likely already being sold for a pittance. Drug money or something else.

Pity. Though the instrument wasn't in great shape, definitely signs of wear and tear, in the hands of the talented musician, a master's hand, it transcended possibility for a beautiful song. He had certainly proven that the past evenings, playing because he loved it. Then, playing for Sherlock.

"Hey, you all right?" A woman spoke to him, cautiously from a few doors away, having seen him standing by himself. So engrossed in his musings, he hadn't even noticed her approach. Something white was being held out to him, in her outstretched hand. There were kind eyes and a pitiful expression. He took in her soft _tchuck-tchuck_ sound, her face, then at her hand again. A kleenex. A kleenex? It wasn't until after he'd snapped at her until she disappeared that he was fighting back tears. Oddly, sentimentally, he wanted to tell her about the man who was now laying dead on a cold sidewalk, being loaded into an ambulance to end up on a morgue slab. It didn't seem right that he was the only one who was missing him, remembering him. He gave himself a mental shake. Ridiculous. Sentimental. _Idiot._

For a few days, maybe a week, Sherlock moved with extra vigilance. Kept to the shadows, kept a wall or safe corner behind him, listened intently, kept to himself even more than he already did. He checked out a consignment store for musical instruments (nothing), he paid more attention to some of the chatter of the homeless (which was unhelpful except that he heard of a new place to crash, a den), who certainly paid more attention than many in the city. A few times he heard orchestral arrangements, or strings playing, and made sure he didn't linger, stop, or get maudlin. _Rebuild the walls, no one comes in or out again._ And then he found another supplier, a cheaper one, and there was an accidental, recreational overdose, a token hospital visit, a signing out against medical advice, and a visit from his brother with a proposition.

++

"This is stupid," Sherlock muttered, as John pulled a chair closer to the couch, taking one of Sherlock's hands in his own. The emery board seemed small in his sturdy fingers, and the sounds a bit grating and rough until he'd flipped it over to use the fine side.

"Why do you feel that?"

A clench of the jaw, a tightening of the lip. _I'm not saying._

"Well, I tend to think if it helps you relax, if you enjoy it, feel a little ..." John hesitated, not wishing to sound degrading, "taken care of, and it's good, so don't fret about it." Rather quickly, the nails were shortened, smoothed, one hand then the other, and John retrieved the bottle of lotion from under his leg where he'd put it to warm. The lotion was nicely scented, subtle, and as he rubbed the first of Sherlock's hands, he spoke a little about how he'd found Wigmore Hall and that he'd enjoyed choosing a musician that he thought Sherlock would not only like, but admire, that they would both appreciate. "So this one came up, the matinee, and I don't know about you, but I thought that final piece was absolutely incredible."

A sigh.

"All right. Good thing I don't mind carrying on a one-sided conversation, then." John could tell Sherlock was feeling a bit less agitated, so he digressed from the music, taking his story from the encore proceeding to a mildly embellished story about how he played clarinet for a year in school before the music teacher sent home a note that perhaps John would be more suited for a percussion instrument. "So they suggested drums. Other hand please," and Sherlock, smirking as soon as the drums were mentioned, complied. "My da said that drums were for students with no other talent, and maybe it would serve them all right if I just quit." The lotion made a slick sound into John's palm, then a rippling and sliding whisper of a noise as John began working and massaging Sherlock's other hand. The fingers, long, lean, the palm relaxed, the back of the knuckles rather dry and needed a second round of lotion, rubbing, allowing the skin to moisturize and hydrate. With a quick glance at Sherlock's face, he thought maybe he'd at least try. There had been a few minutes of relatively comfortable silence.

"So, the last D." John waited, watching Sherlock's eyes, his face for too much irritation.

There wasn't any, yet, though his words were resigned. "Here we go, knew it was inevitable."

"Yeah, well, I have a captive audience, and I like to be productive with my time." Flipping Sherlock's palm so that his thumb was in the center, he began to press a little more firmly, deeply rubbing but gentle and kind, a deeper tissue massage. The faint purr in Sherlock's throat was enough motivation to continue, working between each section, palmar surfaces, spaces between metacarpals. Sherlock's hand was warm, fingers coiled, relaxed.

"Decision, of course," Sherlock said, dully.

"Yes. Decision. Keeping a mental list of reasons to stay away from cocaine, heroin, whatever your Siren song is. Along with that, you make up your mind, I mean, really, concretely  _deciding_ ahead of time that there are better things to do."

"Banal."

"An intentional choice."

"Worthless."

"Perhaps. But your way hasn't proven to be all that long-lasting or effective, has it?"

"Sounds too easy." They were both watching John's fingers over the back of Sherlock's hand, thumb rubbing, the lotion warmer and soothing. "Name it, claim it. Not how it works."

John rotated Sherlock's wrist in his hand, pushed up the cuff of the sleeve, began to very gently rub, to massage his lower forearm. Muscles under John's fingers were thick and solid, stronger than they would have originally appeared. "Sherlock, after all these years," rub, rub, circles, sliding halfway up his forearm, "I can concretely assure you that nothing - _absolutely nothing_ \- about this is ever easy."

John pressed in, the hand between his own relaxed, supple, trusting. A few deeper massages, softly into the base of Sherlock's thumb and down his wrist, and there was a faint sound from Sherlock's throat. A slow, steady rumble of low, satisfaction. It conveyed pleasure, and a faint plea for more, harder, and _that's good_.

The vibration carried both through the air and through John's hands, his knee where they were actually touching. From within the pit of John's stomach was an answering stirring of his own. He glanced up toward Sherlock's face, pulling his eyes from the relaxed elegance of Sherlock's hands to find Sherlock also watching him. And inside the eye contact, the two of them, was an obvious expression of appreciation. And concern. And intimacy.

John let himself linger there, a hard swallow of his own that Sherlock took note of, and then a nervous tongue licking his lower lip while Sherlock watched that. His interest and attentiveness, bold. There was the raise of an eyebrow, then, and the room seemed to warm between them as John's hands shifted positions, kneading. After another round on the other hand, he lightened his touch, slowed down his ministrations.

With slow and deliberate movements, John slid his hands free while taking a deep breath, making ready to slide back and end the impromptu hand care. Sherlock allowed it, then just as quickly, a striking attack, lunged with his hand, grabbed John's in his own, holding it there, steady, securely. It was a declaration of connection, of belonging, of thanks. Of declaring things on his own terms.

On quiet feet, John smiled, fondly, his own heart pounding as he stood up fully and stepped away.

++

The rest of the evening found Sherlock mostly flat on his back, the couch, too fatigued to argue much, eat much, or keep his eyes open. The offer of a shower was a flat no, and he was only slightly more interested in the offer of a bath, but turned that down too. "God no, I'm just... _Tired_."

"All right." John spent a bit of time straightening up from dinner - bangers and mash, a classic favourite, a bust, untouched for Sherlock but John had enjoyed it. "You know," John finally said, "I guess if you're that tired, we can just get you into bed, then. It has been, I realise, quite a long day for you."

"Not really. All I did was sit around. Brief walk to and from a car."

"More than you're used to doing."

"Shouldn't be. No energy. It's ..." and Sherlock sighed, frustration evident in his face and his tone "... unacceptable." The word didn't convey enough negativity, and there was a faint growl again of a different kind than while John was massaging his hands. "Intolerable."

"If you're not starting to get a bit more energy within a couple of days, I think we'll need to check another blood count just to be on the safe side."

Sherlock shrugged, unimpressed.

He had no idea of what John would be asking of him.

Not one inkling.

Which was, John knew, not necessarily a bad thing. Not yet.

++

Greg Lestrade had a name of the homeless violinist now, one last lead before closing the file, leaving the homicide unsolved, another annoyance. The door to the mostly unmarked shoppe had a bell as he entered. 

"Sir?"

"Looking for a violin, may have been dropped off, would have had either no receipt or forged one, last week, perhaps. Certainly not before this past Monday, no longer ago than that."

"I did get one, in fact, just that time frame. Kind of beat up and weathered. There's a nicer one up here..."

"No, I'm interested in that one." The shopkeeper nodded, gestured to where it currently was.

"Pretty scratched, but could probably be filled and polished..."

"Is this the scroll?" Greg ran his fingers over the deep grooves by the end of the strings, but the pegs.

"Yes."

"I'll give you a good deal on it, if you still want it."

Lestrade shook his head, realised he needed to clarify. "Actually, I need to know exactly when this was brought in. And the name of the person who dropped it off."

"Tuesday morning was the drop off," he said, checking the tag. "But no can do on the name," he said, just a bit haughty. "That information is confidential, and I go to many lengths to protect my clients. And there most often is no proof of ownership, other than a signature. Probably a family instrument this one, though, so no official trail..."

"I see." The DI's eyes skittered about the inventory as if wondering about business practices, about much of the store contents. "You do realise you're required to turn over transaction records to the authorities if there's a reason. Or a request."

"I check through reports of stolen merchandise through a clearinghouse, it wasn't ..."

Greg sighed, removed his ID and badge, opened it, placed it on the counter. "I'm investigating the murder of the owner of this violin, which we believe was stolen this past Monday, so you're going to give me the name and contact..."

++

Sherlock's pale eyes were wide, uncertain, startled. "You've always drawn blood here."

"Not anymore."

"That's ridiculous." Even with just the hint of John's informing Sherlock that his next round of lab tests would be drawn on site at the hospital, there was a bit of sweating, fussing, pupil dilation, and a nervous movement with both hands as he wiped his apparently sweaty palms on his trousers. The morning had started off with fatigue that was no better but no worse. John had insisted on a wash, dressing, and when Sherlock had resisted all of those things, John had cued him through getting dressed, button front shirt. He had managed to refuse socks, and had not yet eaten anything, had barely sipped at his tea.

"Not really. It's more expensive, requires more handling, more man-hours. There's no valid reason why you can't get to a hospital lab to have it drawn there."

The fussing, the push back that Sherlock was clearly thinking - as if written across his forehead - remained unsaid.

After a moment, John rescued him. "I know you don't want to."

"You're right, I don't."

"I have a plan, and I'm going to help you."

"Not interested."

"Never-the-less," John began, tone gentle, hoping that Sherlock would see his point once he explained it.

Sherlock interrupted. "It's wrong of you to make me, to insist. Forcing a patient to do something is assault."

"Not exactly, given that assault implies harm. You are being encouraged --"

_"I'm not. Doing. It."_

"Look," John began again, and when Sherlock's mouth opened as if he was going to cut him off, again, John raised both a hand and an eyebrow, and pressed on. "Getting over some of the things in your past, Sherlock, is a good idea. Healing. Restorative."

"Frightening. Irrelevant."

"I can help you."

"Believe I already said no."

"Empowering once you do it."

"I don't need it. Don't want it."

"What if you ever need the hospital again?" A few breaths, both of them considering how difficult that experience had been. "Having a successful connection, break the bad associations?"

"I'll be quite content never needing to go there again."

"You've shown amazing strength, what you've been through, survived. What you've been forced to overcome so far. Does it make sense to let this one thing win, have power over you? You can defeat this thing, once and for all."

"No." He turned away, put his arm across his eyes, trying to feign disinterest. But his chest, his breathing, the bounding pulse at his neck told a different story to John's trained eyes. "Not interested," he said again, his voice attempting to convey dismissal, boredom.

John had held the trump card close to him, pulled it out now to play it, lay it on the table. "Not even for a mobile once you go through with it?"

John watched the argument wrestle itself around inside Sherlock's head and play out over his features. The arm lifted up off his face to consider John, his seriousness, his nonjudgmental expression, his focus on Sherlock. Eventually, his hands folded, palms together, and his eyes shut for a bit. Stewing, mulling it over, weighing the cost. Enough time has passed that John fixed and drank his tea, made some arrangements for a food delivery and laundry pick-up, all the while giving Sherlock time and space.

John had grabbed his book, was lightly paying attention to the book and Sherlock in equal measures, when Sherlock finally made a small sound in his throat. "Exactly what is this plan of yours?"

++

"God, my heart's pounding."

"Good, it's a sign of life, actually."

Small frown. "You know what I meant."

"Of course I do. While you throw the word idiot in my direction with regularity, it's not always the case."

"What's your timetable here?" The diction was tight, nervous. "How long do I have?"

"The journey of a thousand miles ..." John said, proffering the beginning of a quote and leaving it hang.

John was somewhat surprised when Sherlock finished the quote. "... begins with a single step." Sherlock's voice was uncertain, stressed.

Smiling, John shrugged. "Relax. How long do you need?" They were still in the sitting room, coats out and ready, awaiting a driver that John'd requested from Mycroft.

++

**I can send someone tomorrow. Where to? Your text failed to mention your destination. MH**

**Hospital. Routine blood work.**

**A courier should be sufficient instead. MH**

**No, he's going to have blood drawn at the hospital.**

**Are you sure that's wise? MH**

John grinned to himself, knowing there would be something of a challenge, a questioning of his judgment, and he was glad he'd considered it. He scrolled through his camera roll, found the photo of the signed contract, texted it back.

**He'll be there as you requested. MH**

**I should mention we might not get it done tomorrow. Might require a return trip or two.**

**Ah, the exposure therapy you'd mentioned. MH**

**Yes.**

**I hope you know what you're doing. MH**

In his mind, John's text would have read, That makes two of us.

++

Sherlock had been tense the whole ride in the car, but as the hospital sign came into view, it got worse. Much worse. John slid over slightly, just a few inches closer in the back of the car until they were side-by-side. "You're all right. You've got this."

"This was easier in the back of the ambulance."

"You were very ill then. Not terribly alert some of that time."

A purse lipped exhale, a glance at the car's interior. "No toxic chlorine gas in here, I suppose. Maybe a little vomiting would help --"

"Sherlock, no."

There was a breathy curse, and John saw, heard, and felt all the signs of Sherlock's stress, was a little concerned. "If today's too soon, or too much, you say the word, and we'll turn around."

Sherlock glanced quickly at him, surprised.

"You need to know that I might try to talk you out of it, a little, that we continue. But I'm not going to ask you to do something you're not ready for. It's for you to decide."

The next exhale seemed to be a little more calming as Sherlock heard John's words, could sense that he had a little control over the setting, the environment. The escape card. "All right."

John leaned forward, spoke quietly to the driver. "Parking spot, please. Bit away from the door but close enough to see, all right?" Sitting back, he took Sherlock's hand, not surprised to find it icy cold, trembling. "All right so far?"

The smile was as shaky as Sherlock's hand. Another forced exhale. "I'm trying to be." A quick smile, returned with a quick smile of John's. The honesty was, John thought, very much appreciated. There was a pallor, a bounding carotid artery positively pounding, tight lines about Sherlock's eyes, mouth, a worry to his eyes.

Solemnly, two pairs of eyes - dark and pale - locked onto each other, searching for and finding support, encouragement, togetherness. "Will you get offended if I remind you to take a deep breath?"

"Yes. No more D words."

Smirk, both of them. John squeezed his hand loosely. "Done. Don't want to deprive you of your delight in how _disastrous my discussion_ can be ..."

"Oh god, stop now." The smile was a little more natural, then, as the driver manoeuvered into a parking space as John had requested. "Here? Really?" Sherlock looked around, the hospital building looming across the parking lot.

"You're safe."

"You might not be." There was a hint of impropriety, the faintest, briefest smile where Sherlock's eyes sparkled at John. It was quickly replaced with concern again, of anxiety.

John was pleased, even at the transient sense of humour. "Behave." A coping skill.

"Or else, what?" Quick as a flash, the snarkiness was there again and gone. "You'll do what?"

"Nothing that would excite you. Calm yourself."

Steadily, Sherlock raised his head a little, looked right back at John. "I guess that is rather the point of all this." An exaggerated breath, a nervous roll of his shoulders.

"You're doing well."

"Yes, I'm doing a fantastic job of sitting in a parked car in a car-park. Someone notify the authorities, I think I need a commendation."

"This is not a small thing for you. Don't negate the significance." Sherlock looked as if he had more to say about it, shrugged, and then looked down at his hands. John kept going. "You were edgy even thinking about coming over here. And that's the point, as you said, to be calm with repeated exposure, doing a little more each time. And there is no timetable. If it takes a week to get you inside the doors, so be it."

"Waste of time."

"Not if it works."

"So this is it?"

"Not exactly." John had done quite a bit of reading, some research, but it had been a long time since he'd developed his own programme. "Some practitioners add medication, and some try for systematic desensitisation. There are theories about response extinction, and escape response retraining." He acknowledged that Sherlock wasn't a typical patient, had a multitude of factors that had brought them to to this place, and that even for him to be sitting in a car where they were was an accomplishment. "I kind of thought you and I would improvise. Make it up as we go along."

"What kind of doctor are you?" There was a rolling of the eyes and a haughty purse of the lips. "Make it up as we go along?"

"I'd be mildly delusional to think anyone else's methods would work with you, necessarily, wouldn't you agree?"

"You're going rogue." Sherlock shifted in the seat. "I think I like that."

++

The following day, they were back in the car-park, a few spaces closer to the door, and Sherlock was quieter this time. Not wanting to press his luck, John offered Sherlock a bottle of water. When he tried to refuse, John nodded his head at it. "A few sips, please."

"Not thirsty."

"Then open the bottle anyway and pretend."

Sherlock seemed inclined to continue fussing, and John marveled yet again at what hills and battles Sherlock seemed ready to die on. Surprisingly, though, he did then as John had instructed. Recapped, set aside. "There, happy?"

"Of course I am. It's my baseline temperament." John smiled over at Sherlock, a dare and a challenge issued.

"No it's not. Satisfied maybe, at least some of the time, but not _happy_." He engaged, watching John with a knowing grin, a challenge back at him.

Ignoring the comment for the moment, John leaned forward to tap the back of the driver's shoulder. Wordlessly, a book was handed over his shoulder, Treasure Island, that they'd been picking up from time to time. The driver then, leaving the car turned on for the heat to stay running, left the vehicle.

"He's coming back soon?" Sherlock asked, quick, low, a furrow on his brow as the door latched behind the driver.

The driver tapped his hand on the top of the car as he walked off.

"Where's he going?"

"Gone to wait inside for a bit." John said slowly, quietly. "Would you like to join him?"

"No. No. Absolutely not."

"Okay."

"Are you going inside too?"

"No. My place is here with you."

Sherlock stared through the car window to see their driver disappear into the building, turned anxious eyes back to John.

Though John did not utter the words aloud, he made a slow gesture of a deep breath in, deep breath out. Sherlock didn't acknowledge it, but he did in fact breathe a few times in sync with John.

"Okay, that's fine. He'll be along in a few minutes, or sooner if we call him."

Sherlock looked uncertain.

"We're not trapped here. It's all right." John waited, watched Sherlock try to steady his breathing. There was a timid nod, and John allowed himself to feel a little relief. Settling more comfortably into the seat, and hoping he came across more casual than he was feeling, John opened the book to where they'd left off last evening. "You ready?"

"Not especially." With an unsteady hand, Sherlock pressed into his belly, inhaled, held the breath in a few seconds, exhaled shakily.

"Have another sip."

"I am quite on to your tricks, incorporating the bloody D of drink water into this outing."

"And you just took a very deliberate deep breath, little biofeedback technique, so keep your fussing to a minimum please."

"I did n--" and then Sherlock realised quite apparently that he had indeed done what John had said, and groaned a little.

John chuckled faintly. "As I've said before, I don't care what anyone calls it if it helps, even a little. You can fuss all you want." With a small clear of his throat, he began to read again, and Sherlock did indeed take another sip from time to time as John meandered slowly into the next chapter of Treasure Island.

The driver was back, as pre-arranged, and John finished the section they'd been reading. "That's good for today, yeah?"

Sherlock looked troubled. "This is ridiculous."

"What is?"

"That just sitting here is giving me such symptoms."

"You have little control of it." John set the book aside. "But I do think that tomorrow, I'm going to push you, just a little, safely, same rules, okay? But I think you need to see some progress. For a lot of people, the anticipation is harder than the actual thing they're worried about. So having this hanging over your head isn't helpful at all."

John placed his hand reassuringly on Sherlock's knee, patting a bit. Sherlock looked away, out the window until he saw the hospital. John watched him swallow hard, several times, and take a shuddering breath. He gave one single nod.

++

"So what's the plan?" Sherlock worried at his lower lip as he waited for for John to answer.

"Well, obviously we're not going to the outpatient laboratory department yet."

"Thank god."

"Soon, though."

Sherlock looked away, fingers clenching in his lap, a bit of a shiver at the mere suggestion.

They were in the car already, almost in sight of the hospital. "I thought we'd get dropped off at the door, go in, to the coffee shoppe just off the lobby inside the front doors, maybe sit for a few, have coffee if you want, and leave."

"No. I can't. I'll be sick."

"You can do this."

"I swear John, I'm nauseous, and the last thing I want to do is..." he gestured, making it obviously apparent that vomiting was very high on his list of fears for the moment.

"I know. You won't." The car approached the main doors. "But we're not going to debate this, or overthink it. You and I are getting dropped off, and you and I are walking in together. No problem."

"I don't think..." he let the sentence drift away.

"If we have to, we can turn around. But listen, we're going inside, all right? I'll help you."

An absolutely frigid hand grabbed John's in a vicelike hold of desperation, but John thought it a good sign, a commitment of sorts. The car halted, in park, and the driver appeared, opening the door between Sherlock and the main door, so that John was behind him, encouraging him with both words and a touch of his hand between Sherlock's shoulder blades. Sherlock hadn't moved, however, still in the back seat of the car, balking.

With two warm hands, John reached out to turn him slightly there in the depths of the car. He took Sherlock's face between his fingertips so that they were eye to eye, and Sherlock was paying attention. "Eyes on me. You're safe." Between John's hands, he could feel Sherlock trying to wrench his head away and out of John's gaze. "No, say it, repeat this, 'I'm safe'." Sherlock's jaws clenched, John could feel it. "Don't drag this out longer, Sherlock. Say it, come on."

He complied, though it was in an uncomfortable, whispered voice.

Immediately, John smiled. "Good job."

The wary expression looking back at him was unconvinced.

"Feel things, right now. Your heart pounding. A sign of life, remember?" No smile, but John was okay with that. He let his fingers brush over Sherlock's high cheekbones, sliding a little. "Feel my hand here, I'm not going anywhere. Dry mouth. Safe." John dropped his hands, nodded toward the open car door, then nudged at his back, gently prodding, staying ridiculously close to him as they stepped from and exited the car. "Be mindful, you're in charge here." They stood by the car a moment, and John took a few steps toward the hospital, close enough that he could still have reached back to tug at Sherlock. But he didn't need to, and they fell into step together, entering the doors, walking into the lobby. John had been prepared to need to take Sherlock's hand, but was hopeful - and pleased - that it hadn't been necessary. Sherlock walking on his own legs, under his own direction, was infinitely better.

The coffee shoppe was not crowded, as John had chosen the time as carefully as he could, and he approached the barista, ordered two coffees. Shortly, John had carried both to a close table, and they were seated across from each other. Sherlock's entire being was quiet, introspective, and John sipped his coffee while Sherlock understandably ignored his own. "Hey," he finally said, and Sherlock looked up tentatively at him. "You're doing very well."

"Mindfulness?" He tossed John's earlier word back at him. "Seems not helpful."

With a smile, John let his foot come up against Sherlock's leg under the table, tapped his foot a few times for the contact sensation, and set his coffee down. "It's ultimately a good thing. Beneficial. Not to completely tune out all your responses, but lean into them a little. You're uncomfortable, but you're still here, and in a little while, we'll get up and walk back to the door, get in the car."

A small snuffle of a laugh, the lopsided smile that Sherlock probably didn't know he had. "I'm ready," he breathed quietly, "can we go now?"

John watched carefully, looking for additional signs of distress and finding none before asking, "Do you really need to?" John's hand slid along Sherlock's upper arm, a squeeze of encouragement. "Really?"

Small frown, a licking of his lips. "I suppose not."

"Good man." A bit later, "That was a costly admission, wasn't it? That you didn't need to leave right away?"

"I think I'd like to change my answer."

Their eyes met again, John's sparkling and Sherlock's tolerant. "Coffee's pretty good. You might enjoy it."

++

In his office at the Met, Greg Lestrade assembled the paperwork, the few details, the property list, the report from the consignment store owner. It wasn't much as far as strong evidence went, but it had been enough to rattle the man, convince him to utter a confession. A judge had sentenced him, the thief turned killer, to lengthy prison time. The violin had been secured and returned to the man's distant relatives. One of them, a nephew apparently, who not only taught violin but played with a small string ensemble from time to time in smaller venues, occasionally right there in the greater London area. He'd been quite grateful for the instrument being returned, and had made some off-hand comment about hopefully using it from time to time in his performances, as a tribute to his uncle. Greg tagged the file as solved, added his final signature to the front cover, remembering the detail - the violin - from the still unknown stranger that led to the killer's discovery. He drove by that section of town from time to time, could still recall the knitted cap, the sadness of it all.

But still, solved. At least they knew what happened to him. And that, according to the random stranger who'd been at the scene then run away, who'd played the pivotal role in the missing violin, that provided the connection to justice. Probably just a transient drug addict who'd loosely befriended the homeless though musically inclined man. Oh well, probably long gone. Family notified, property returned. The nephew had actually been glad to hear the stranger's report that his uncle had been still actively playing it, finding enjoyment in it, up until the time he died.

Case closed. The file went in, the drawer slid shut. Out of sight, and out of mind.

++

The next few outings, as John suspected, saw lots of progress. Once Sherlock had accomplished something, and enjoyed the feeling of mastery and affirmation, the power dynamic he could have over his surroundings and responses, he got hungry for more success.

The next visit to the hospital, John led him to the outpatient registration area so he could see the check-in procedure, the various steps of the flow of the department. There was a registration clerk he would have to see, have a wristband applied, paperwork collected, then another waiting area before being taken to the phlebotomy accessioning area. They stood and watched for a few moments, watching groups of people arrive, and the patients being taken through the door one at a time, to return minutes later, usually adorned with gauze and tape over an apparently successful lab draw.

"John?"

Sherlock's voice was low, a little worried, and John could see that he was contemplating the door that separated the waiting room from the depths of the department. He'd been expecting the concern and was glad Sherlock'd considered it prior to the actual time they would be there to get blood drawn. "You're wondering if I'll be able to go in with you."

"Yes."

"Would you prefer I go along, into the back with you, when it's your turn?"

"Yes."

"Then let's make sure that happens. Let me confirm with the receptionist there at the window, all right?"

Which he did, and was told it was absolutely fine.

So the next day, when they returned, John accompanied Sherlock through the doors of the hospital, past the coffee shoppe, and Sherlock made it through the registration procedure with quiet anxiety, glancing at John often and fidgeting from time to time. Together, they took adjacent chairs in the phlebotomy department waiting room. John hoped it wouldn't be long, knowing that the anticipation was indeed an enemy. Sherlock bristled and stiffened each time the receptionist opened the door, clipboard in hand, to call a name.

Finally, the door opened, "Holmes?" No one, including Sherlock, looked up at her. John found himself wishing that he'd called ahead to explain they might need a bit more patience, understanding. "Holmes? Is there a Holmes here?"

He caught her eye then, nodded slowly, hoping she'd get the hint. He leaned a little closer to Sherlock. "Ready?"

A shaky breath, the clenched jaw, arms crossed in front of him with hands folded tightly against him, very close to actually shivering. A faint whisper, "No."

"I think you can do this." No response. "I'm going with you, remember?" The leather shoe began to tap a series of rapid drumbeats against the lino. "If you're ready, now's the time." John stood then, reached a hand down as it to help Sherlock out of the chair. "We can do this," he said quietly under his breath, for Sherlock alone. The receptionist, as well as the smattering of those still waiting, all watched as Sherlock, tight and tense and silent, stood up, completely ignoring John's hand, moving toward and then through the open door.

The back of the department was a short hallway to a special chair, and when John saw it, he grew especially concerned. There was a padded armrest that came down in front of the patient, so that both arms could be easily assessed and for support while the blood was being drawn. To the technician, he was ready to request a variance from their usual procedure, but Sherlock sat in the open indicated chair, lowered the armrest himself, and willingly held out his arm for the blood draw. The phlebotomist had looked briefly at John upon seeing some of the antecubital scarring still evident, but then proceeded to competently and confidently obtain the lab sample on the first draw. She looked up. "That's it, have a nice day," then hurried them both back out the door.

Retracing their steps, they passed outpatient registration, the coffee shoppe, and left the hospital building to find Mycroft's driver who was waiting patiently by the car's open rear door. Not a word was exchanged, nor was it necessary, as one of them was wearing a wristband and a gauze, and both were sporting matching, easy, satisfied smiles.

++ 

The following morning, a courier knocked on the door. The delivery for Sherlock was handed over after a signature, which he held up to his ear to ensure it wasn't ticking while John watched, grinning at his antics, amused.

A mobile phone, which had been powered up and configured. It had only been in Sherlock's hand for a few minutes when it sounded with the incoming alert sound of a thunder clap and lightning strike. Mycroft's already set incoming text tone, apparently, Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes. He turned the screen so John could read the message.

**I expect you know what to do - and what not to do - with this.**

Sherlock's fingers flew in response, an outgoing whoosh. **Piss off.**

Sherlock sent the text, then held it out so John could read it. "Not very nice."

An annoyed shrug. "He'd wonder if it was even me if it was anything but rude, otherwise."

John smiled, shaking his head. "Here's your next text then:  John says thanks."

Moments later there was another thunder and lightning sound. Sherlock turned the phone around so John could see.

Instead of the text John had dictated, Sherlock had improvised.  **John says piss off too.**

Mycroft had replied, **Tell your doctor good luck. And you're welcome.**

++

The day had begun with faxed lab work results, a moderate increase in Sherlock's haemoglobin and haematocrit. "Just going to take time, then," John assured him. "That, and continuing to stay active, build up your ..." John caught sight of what Sherlock was busy with. "What the hell are you doing?" From the kitchen table, Sherlock looked up at him.

"Tobacco ash, John." There was the flick of a lighter, a few leaves ignited over one of the plates from the kitchen cupboard. "It burns differently, depending on type, age, dryness, and age of the plant."

"Where did you get it?"

"I ordered it yesterday. The delivery came while you were in the shower." 

"Mycroft's credit card?"

"Of course."

"Next day delivery?"

"Obviously rushed, yes."

"What else did you purchase?"

Sherlock pushed a few buttons on his mobile, handed it out, "That's it. Feel free to check. I'm sure Mycroft is monitoring not only the phone, but his credit card, and would have already been in contact, or worse, over here if there'd been something amiss."

He considered the safety of incinerating things inside the flat, and the mess there in the kitchen already, thought about restricting the activity, and could indeed see Sherlock gearing up for resistance. "Probably wise to open a window, yeah?" which he said, surprising Sherlock quite a bit, and then moved to accomplish it. "So, is that whole leaf tobacco?"

The smile that lit up Sherlock's face, the sparkle of his gray-blue eyes (reflecting the dress shirt he was wearing, apparently, John thought), and the resultant excited tirade on the various types of tobacco plants, nicotine content, their products, their growing patterns, and the rest of the morning passed with relative ease. "A new interest, or is this something you've always wondered about?"

"Oh come on, I realise you felt the need to open the window, but this was as close as I could get to actually lighting up a cigarette as I thought I could get away with."

"Well, please don't light anything else on fire. Curtains, table, the flat in its entirety, actually, including your fringe, anything other than ..." and John watched as Sherlock reached out for a very long fibre that was next to him at the table, obviously from his violin bow, and lit it. "Sherlock."

"Oh come on, these are harmless."

"No, that is flammable. Tobacco leaves, I sort of understand." He stood watching a moment. "But I'm a little disappointed in you."

He looked affronted. "Why?"

"Where's your notebook? Findings of experiments, record-keeping. Come on, keeping track of results?" John nodded at the microscope then. "Can you make slides out of the ash?"

"Never tried. Don't much see the point."

"Well, if you're going to the trouble to order it, study it, and burn it, seems you could ..."

"You'd need an electron microscope to ..." and his conversation went in a different direction then.

John had to interrupt quite emphatically for dinner, but managed to convince him to stow everything away so they could actually enjoy dinner at the table. A short walk afterward, and Sherlock, tired, settled on the couch in front of the news while John cleaned up from dinner. He'd just sat down and picked up his book when Sherlock started having a conversation with the news reporter on the telly. The report was a local crime, with a couple of people being interviewed, and a plea from one of the victims for assistance, for closure, for resolution. The reporter had just said that hopefully now there would be more leads forthcoming, that more information would help police solve the mystery.

"No, it won't." And then Sherlock muttered something else under his breath, eyes closed again.

John heard the weak voice, turned down the volume on the telly “What was that?”

They discussed the headline from the segment on the news, an active, ongoing case that had been in the newspaper the day before. John sipped his usual after-dinner tea, while Sherlock expounded onto the story. Sherlock had latched onto one of the details, something about a missing person, a missing tool and a neighbouring backyard shed, the fact that the police were idiots, and John followed along only to make sure Sherlock was thinking clearly.

"What are you talking about?" John set down the tea. "That doesn't necessarily mean anything, that detail."

"Of course it does. The fact that these people reported the robbery and insisted on this ridiculous detail. A green ladder is the key. It's obvious."

"Not to me. And apparently not to the Met."

He reiterated. “They’re idiots.” He explained why, with liberal use of various derogatory adjectives, to the point where John finally'd had enough.

Holding up a hand to get Sherlock to stop his tirade for a moment, he said, "I suppose we should report this. There was actually a request for the community to get involved if they had more information. I think there was a tipline, even." At the end of the reporter's segment, long gone now, there had been a phone number posted.

"I've called the desk once before, a long time ago. They never took my information down. Never even put my call through."

A smirk, a shaking of his head. "Let me guess, were you insulting? Impolite?" John was just shy of actually laughing at Sherlock's shocked expression.

A huff of annoyance. "It was a waste of time."

Scrolling and searching on his mobile, John found the number quickly, and dialed before he could change his mind. Given that it was late, there was only a voicemail option, which was actually going to be easier to explain. And easier, when they listened to the message, to simply delete it, if Sherlock was correct. He left his name, number, the information that Sherlock had shared, and rang off.

"Waste of time," Sherlock prophesied again. "I guarantee it."

++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, there's more fanart. This one takes my breath away. It is tenderness and absolutely everything I love about John Watson. It is out of the endoscopy scene in chapter 12. I will eventually put the amazing-ness at the end of that chapter. But for now, I hope you enjoy it as much as I am
> 
> [Endoscopy suite snuggles!](https://madeleinefs.deviantart.com/art/Fanart-for-Beauty-from-Ashes-2-729733449)
> 
> So while, as Sherlock insisted, the Three D's of helping manage addiction issues (Delay, Distract, Decision), some people, as John insisted, do find a program like that helpful in short term coping. There are a lot of programs, many options and strategies.
> 
> Exposure Therapy is a well known means to deal with anxiety, PTSD, fear confrontation, or other situations while assuring a safe environment for the patient. It should only be attempted under direction of a skilled practitioner.


	15. Connections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things might be settling, and they both begin to look to the future. 
> 
> Enter the presence, influence, and opportunity offered by Greg Lestrade.

John awoke early one morning to the sound of Sherlock's foot touching the carpeted floor. Opting to not call him out on it immediately (though he knew letting Sherlock think he got away with something would absolutely need to be remedied before much time passed), he held still while Sherlock noiselessly - or close to it - left the bedroom. Quietly then, he slipped out of bed himself, noting that Sherlock had bypassed the loo and headed toward the sitting room. John wondered if it was to surf his mobile, do some research on it perhaps, as he'd instituted a no-mobiles-for-patients rule in the bedroom. He was firm, keeping his own only in case of emergency or as an alarm, and Sherlock hadn't fussed terribly about the restriction.

Sherlock seemed more aimless than intent on something, and he approached the window overlooking the street, the light peeking in and illuminating his profile and his curls in the faint, blue hue of the streetlamps. An exaggerated sigh, a few more steps, restless, a slouching down in the overstuffed chair, a defeated posture.

"I know you heard me."

John smiled a bit in the dark room, leaned a shoulder against the wall. "Light sleeper."

"So I keep finding out."

Their voices were hushed, gentle, respectful of the hour and their collective moods. "Feeling all right?"

Sherlock's eyes closed as his head tipped back. "God please, not another set of _vital_ _signs_." John would have chuckled but for Sherlock's obvious discouragement. That, the overarching negativity, and the snarl.

"No, think this is beyond the scope of what that would tell me, was preferring you'd just talk to me about what's wrong rather than me try to suss it out."

"Nothing's wrong." Not another muscle moved, his head back, body quiet.

"Doesn't seem everything's quite right though, either," John suggested, attempting to open a door, "from over here anyway."

"No."

"Anything specifically on your mind?"

He let the silence momentarily hang over them, and just when John was thinking he'd probably keep quiet, he took a breath and said, "I'm just kind of ... lost." The voice was young, sad.

"I know. I can see it. And hear it."

"And I can't sleep."

"For some reasons, things always seem terrible then. Middle of the night, when everyone but you is asleep, yeah? I know, it's awful."

++

From within the regular ward of the military hospital, John resolved not to put the call light on. Let the nurses, aides, techs care for the really sick or injured patients. The pain from deep within his chest was on multiple levels, even though it had been over five days since the gunshot, his injury, three days since moving out of the acute care bed, his chest tube having been pulled yesterday. The pain kept changing, morphing, grabbing. He could feel the surface nerve endings lighting up on his skin, where there was the puncture of the bullet, the sutures to close it, the surgical stab wound where the chest tube had been, the itchy abrasive sensation of the tape holding his dressings in place. Deeper in, the gratings of rough rib edges, the fracture lines not displaced except when he took a deep breath. No x-ray was required for him to be vividly aware of the exact locations of the ribs - three of them, one broken in two places. Deeper in, although the lung itself had no pain receptors, the pleural space certainly did. Inflammation from traumatic injury, pulmonary effusions and edema from bruised tissues, the atelectatic changes further down in his left chest, the muscles positively _screaming_ when he did his breathing exercises.

 _Ten times every hour while awake,_ they'd said, usually with a tap on the top of the spirometer. Seems he was mostly awake for one reason or another.

The nurses asked how he was doing with his incentive spirometer. John wanted to throw it across the room - challenging task with his dominant arm firmly velcroed into an immobiliser - and stomp on it.

Except that the effort would have only aggravated his pain.

He wanted to watch while _someone else_ threw it across the room and stomped on it.

But he made something of an effort, best he could, to steel himself against the pain, use the damn pneumonia preventative device. Well he knew the science, the medical necessity. That collapsed parenchymal lung tissue could breed more bacteria, more infiltrates, less oxygen, less alveolar recruitment - and pneumonia could be a killer, even of a relatively healthy person let alone someone like him, injured, stressed, debilitated, undernourished a bit from the injury.

 _Want a little something for pain, Watson? Then you could do your I.S., maybe it wouldn't be quite as bad._ The staff tried to help. _Maybe we should get out of bed again, we could sit in the chair, we could go for a short walk soon?_ John wanted to take their imperial 'we' and never hear it again.

Just the milder stuff, John thought. Maybe it will take the edge off. A hard swallow, a gut-level sensation of having failed at his self-imposed call bell moratorium, he pressed the nurse call.

Rather quickly, there was an aide, who relayed the request, and eventually John was brought medications, two tablets and some tepid water, left to himself. He was, now, unfortunately, wide awake. And alone in his room with his thoughts and his discomfort and his insomnia.

The sounds of the hospital at night, though not as noisy as during the day, were somehow worse. It was a reminder of his physician role, surgeon. Of the men he'd worked on, worked with. Of those from that final mission, the sounds of discomfort, pain, injury. The sounds of the dying. The sounds that weren't made by the ones already dead.

In the hospital, more sounds. Moans of those injured, suffering, the crying out of the occasionally confused or disoriented, the busy sounds of rubber-soled shoes hustling to meet needs, tend the wounded, comfort the upset. There had been an emergency the night before, room across the hall. _Epinephrine one milligram, given, where's the damn defibrillator, still in vfib, shock delivered, resuming CPR, the IV line blew, trying IO now, shit, we're losing him, his family is due to arrive tomorrow, Jesus Christ, shock him again..._ and the sounds continued, despite John turning the telly on to cover the drama across the hall. And the pillow that he'd pulled over his head. Usually, though, the noises in the ward were just sad, uncomfortable, and drawn out at night. Amplified, less distraction, more thinking.

Mostly, John used the incentive spirometer when he was trying not to think, to give his mind something less terrible to dwell on rather than to wonder about his young patient, to second-guess his actions, to dwell on things that couldn't be changed. He picked up the mouthpiece, don't picture his fearful, deep brown eyes. Slow steady inhale, stop remembering the surgical suite where he'd loved what he'd been doing. Bellows rising to 1100-1200-1250, excruciating agony and grating - _dear lord, the actual sensation of bone-on-bone_ \- along fresh, tender, painful fracture lines. Cough triggered with the deep breath, a stuttering grip over his entire left side, the sharp pang of pain, then the faint sensation of mucous moving in his larger airways, the intended effect.

He was so _tired_. Seemed forever since he'd had any restorative sleep.

Slow inhale, bellows rising, not as far this time, barely 1000. But another cough. Mobilisation of secretions. Pain scale, ten out of ten. Twelve, actually, and he meant it even as he knew, as a provider, that ten meant ten and no higher was possible. Faces in his memories, young Afghan eyes looking to him fearfully, trusting, counting on him, blurred as his eyes smarted. Passive exhale only to do it again, stop imagining the smug arrogant face of the sergeant. Slow steady inhale, bellows rising ...

Memories crowded out with each breath. It mattered less that he was awake and mostly alone in a morose hospital ward. Pain scales, and spasms, and thoughts that mostly, pneumonia would be a terrible way to go.

Mostly.

Ten times every hour while awake. For him, two hundred and forty times a day.

++

"I never slept great before. But now, couple hours at a time is all I can ..." Sherlock's voice trailed off again. Despite the calm of the room, even his whisper seemed harsh.

"I know, I hear you." He considered the pain of the man across the room, the timing of when to approach, when to turn off the clinician and be more of a friend, a confidante, a coach. Not yet. "But nothing's hurting, no frightening thoughts, no shakes?"

"Low level headache, but that's been pretty constant, really. Not awful."

"I don't mean this as a platitude, but these things take time."

"Yes that was a platitude, and yes, I know."

John let the silence reign, wondering if Sherlock would say anything further, elaborate, offer insight to his angst. For a while, he continued as he'd been, eyes closed and head back. But after a bit, he turned his head, restless, itchy. He stood again, moving toward the window. Whether he was watching something or not, John wasn't sure. A car drove by slowly, a dog barked off in the distance, and a gust of wind were the only sounds for a while. Eventually, after another sigh, Sherlock turned his face upward within the confines of the window, drawing John's eye to his silhouette - cheekbones, fringe, laryngeal prominence of his throat. "Pretty outside. Moonlight, I mean."

"Little hazy," John said, coming across the room to join Sherlock at the window. "Not quite a full moon tonight." Without much conscious effort, John's hand ghosted to the middle of Sherlock's back, warm fingers spreading out, the faint touch and connection of humanity, of _it's okay, I'm here._

Sherlock wriggled under his touch, pressing a bit into it. Inhale, exhale, _thanks for joining me, I'm glad for it._ "You know the word lunatic came from scientists long ago observing human behaviour being affected by the phases of the moon."

"I do. It's a myth." He chuckled then, remembering the wards at night when he was doc on call, and that the nurses swore the patients were crazier during a full moon, the fighting more intense, the sleep patterns and mentation sometimes just off at that time.

"Yet still the word remains."

"I remember reading an article in school about how they were trying to link the tides to human behaviour related to phases of the moon, given that the human body is something like sixty percent water." John and Sherlock both seemed to be absently watching, taking in the mostly empty street, the moon, the faint mist in the air, the still night. "As if the brain was affected by tides." Somewhere in the distance, there was an electric click of a heating unit, transformer or solenoid, circuit connecting. "It's hard sometimes to be able to turn off your mind, to simply go to sleep."

Sherlock turned then, deliberately and slowly, to stare at John. John's hand was warm, tingly, still, just barely present against Sherlock's back. The blue-hued moonlight through the window barely lit eyes that sparkled darkly, bed-mussed hair, the faint reflection of teeth behind a not-quite smile. "If I promise not to get into trouble, you can go back to bed, if you want."

"I was actually thinking we could get dressed, go for a walk."

"In the middle of the night?" Sherlock did seem quite perplexed. "Some might call _you_ a lunatic." His brows wraggled at the word choice, challenging John to disagree with him.

"Why not?" At first, Sherlock thought John was teasing. But John held still, hands outward and palms up continuing his words.

"Because it's ..."

"The middle of the night? Who cares?"

"You're making this up again, as we go along?" A small chuckle despite the late hour and the somewhat distressing situation. "Going rogue again, Dr. Watson."

"The first rule of handling Sherlock Holmes." He stared back at John, an eye narrowed and his mouth ready to argue. "No, truly, Mycroft told me."

"You're full of shit, you know."

"Might actually be the only rule."

The slow, charming smile that broke out on his face was then much more genuine. " _Handling_?" he asked, the insinuation quite apparent given the grin and the emphasis of the word. Arching his back and pressing into John's touch, Sherlock wriggled so that John's hand was a bit lower down on the area of his back as they stood at the window. Neither was looking out any longer, however. "What else?"

Grinning back, John shook his head and let his hand fall away. "Easy there, you know what I mean." A snort of disagreement, so John continued, "Clothes. Shoes. A walk. I would imagine the gardens are pretty interesting this time of night." A few blocks away, a tiny, walled-in pocket park of sorts, John thought, close enough to Sherlock's flat.

"Gardens?" he asked, disdainfully. "Ugh, no."

"Where would you rather go, then?"

Which was how, a half hour later, they were walking slowly in the direction of the Whitechapel district discussing Jack the Ripper's early victims, something that Sherlock had apparently been interested in as an adolescent. He speculated on how the crimes could have been solved with better investigation, more detail, more bystanders paying attention.

"Know what else would have helped?" John asked, leaning close to him, even though there was no one else who with the slightest chance of overhearing.

"Me."

"I was thinking CCTV or the internet."

Neither hurried, and Sherlock's pace was almost painfully slow, but they kept moving for the most part, stopping occasionally to rest, regroup, or a couple of times to have a quick break on a park bench. John watched Sherlock carefully for signs of overdoing it, asked a few times if he needed to rest. Both of them knew Whitechapel was not going to happen, given their pace, but it had been at least something to talk about, a common theme. Neither of them had ever taken one of the Jack The Ripper walking tours, nor were they likely to, John thought, but it added to the conversation, that perhaps they could look into it, consider it.

"Mycroft can pay for us to have a bloody private tour, at this point."

"I'm going to have a hard time selling _that_ as medically necessary."

Though they hadn't been outside all that long, the sky lightened as the sun began to peek up behind the city buildings. Sherlock made another scathing reference to the poor methodology of law enforcement at the time, the letters mailed to mock them all. "Idiots, I swear. They saw but did not observe."

John chuckled. "Maybe if they'd had a tipline ..."

"Which is pointless anyway."

"... and someone had called it in ..."

"They'll not even listen to it."

"... they might have solved it."

"You're delusional." Sherlock was pretty emphatic about it now, and John opted to let it go so as to spare him the aggravation. He hoped that the fresh air, the increased activity, would benefit him when they returned to the flat. A nap certainly seemed more likely, so the less emotion, the better. "They've surely deleted it, John." Just the previous evening, John had in fact called and left a message on a Tipline regarding a recent news case and the victim's - and the police - request for public help.

There was a rare car or pedestrian, a bit more traffic, early working hour commuters, as the day grew a few minutes older, and John tucked his hands back into his coat pockets against the damp chill. "Maybe. But I - we - haven't had coffee yet, so I'm excused from rational thought."

Sherlock slowed his steps again, and John could see his energy fading, strength and stamina melting away. His voice was even tired and lacking his usual volume and timbre. "I know a good doctor for your caffeine addiction problems."

"I'll be sure to get his name and number later. But come on, time to go back."

++

Baker Street, once they'd arrived, seemed welcoming and warmly cozy after their walk in the night air. It was, John thought - and glad for it - a haven from the difficulties Sherlock was facing, a place to relax and regroup.

"I'm exhausted now," Sherlock moaned. "Seriously. _Done_." Minimal movement, coat dropped off his frame onto the floor, the couch catching him as he crumpled into it.

"Farther than you've walked in a long time, I reckon." Briefly considering fussing about the long coat in a heap on the floor, or even leaving it where it had fallen, John quietly picked and hung it up next to his own.

"True. But still tired out of proportion ..." He didn't even finish his thought.

A bit of wrangling, Sherlock on the couch, John tucking a blanket over him, so tired that his eyes were barely open, though at the touch of the blanket his body leaned into John's caretaking. Almost immediately his breathing evened out, muscles relaxed, and he fell asleep, his body sinking into the cushions. John silenced his mobile, trading his shoes for slippers himself, turned himself diagonally into the corner of the chair, and figured a few minutes long nap wouldn't hurt anything.

The fresh air, the interrupted sleep, the nighttime excursion, and he did not awake to the silent vibration of his mobile.

John wouldn't have answered it anyway. It was a blocked number.

++

"I'm certain I have no idea," Mrs. Hudson's voice was higher pitched than usual, and the volume pushed into John's consciousness. Hallway, then definitely. There was a lower pitched, answering male voice, speaking quickly. It was such that John couldn't make out what he was saying.

Mrs. Hudson, "You could ring him again."

"I'm here now. Just a few questions is all." Not Mycroft's voice. No one he recognised.

"I really don't want you bothering him, bothering either of them, actually, after all ..."

"If you could show me up, then, that would be a good idea."

There were a few ascending footsteps. John stretched and leaned forward, his neck slightly sore from his awkward position in the chair. A quick glance at Sherlock assured him that he was still asleep, hadn't stirred at all. The blanket rose and fell along with his chest, slow and even, and Sherlock's skin was a good colour, warmly pink, his face relaxed.

Pressing upright, standing quickly, John tucked his feet back into his slippers, rushed to the door in order to, hopefully, guard a little bit of Sherlock's much-needed rest. Opening the door, he brought his fingers to his lips, shushing the two people just beginning to come up the stairs. "Can we keep it down please?" he asked, taking in the bit of stress in Mrs. Hudson and the stranger half a step behind her.

The visitor was tall, lean, kind blue eyes, wearing a suit jacket, unbuttoned, his dress shirt open at the collar. A professional on a business visit, then perhaps. There was a seriousness to him, the way he carried himself, the confidence. His well-styled salt and pepper hair made him appear a bit older than he actually was. "Someone to see you," Mrs. Hudson said, unnecessarily.

"That's fine, Mrs. Hudson, don't trouble yourself to come all the way up."

"Thank you dear, hip's troubling me this morning."

"You should take it easy."

The tall man, even from the bottom of the stairwell looking up, stopped where he was. "I'm looking for John Watson."

"And who are you?"

"Does my answer determine whether you are or aren't John Watson?"

John was not actually in the mood for games of any sort. "It might." The bizarre meeting, the play, the tension, followed by the evasive and somewhat playful response, and then John chuckled, as did the stranger on the steps. Rather than give in with an answer, the confrontation eased with a smile and he added, even more amused there at the top of the stairs in his slippers, "Or it might not."

"I'm DI Greg Lestrade with the Met, investigations division."

"Then I might be John Watson." Behind him, there was the movement on the couch, the sound of cushion springs adjusting, of heavier breathing. He glanced inside to find Sherlock stirring, flipping over, pulling the blanket tighter under his chin. On steady feet, the DI ascended the steps to hand John a business card, which went right into John's pocket, and the two shook hands. "Aren't you supposed to flash a badge or something?"

The amused look had spread to the DIs face. "Aren't you supposed to salute _or something_?"

John's first thought was that Mycroft had had a hand in this whatever except that he had in fact made a phone call the previous day. Choosing to keep conversation light, he smirked, "If you already know that, you probably also know I'm _retired_ army, which makes us both civilians."

"Yes."

His voice was quiet. "You're here about the phone message."

A nod. "Couple of questions."

"Might as well come in, I guess," and John stepped aside to let the other man inside.

"I did try to call. Several times, had some business in the area, so I thought I'd come over."

"Resting, had silenced the mobile." He nodded, remembering that Sherlock had predicted it was a waste of time and would go nowhere. "But yes, right, the tip. The missing property case on the news."

The officer pulled out his notepad. "You're the one who called the tipline?" and when he nodded, he confirmed the phone number.

"Right."

" _Dr._ John Watson, according to a website search?" He glanced to the paper, "Private, Professional In-Home Medical Consultant?"

"Yes. My client." He angled his head at where Sherlock was sleeping. Or appeared to be so.

"Need to ask you a few things about how you came to know the information you'd called in regarding."

John glanced at the couch again, wondering if Sherlock was awake, listening. He didn't particularly wish to disturb him without good cause. "It was helpful then?"

"Solved the case, actually."

"Yeah, already? Good news, that," John said.

"Except for how you came to know it."

"Dear lord, what does it take to get any rest around here?" the lump on the couch grumbled, quietly menacing. "Shut up."

"Sherlock."

"Or get out. Now." These words were much clearer, delivered with more oomph. Definitely irritated - and awake - enough to speak clearly and loudly.

Apologetically, John looked from the DI to the couch, "Sorry, give me a minute," and he moved to perch on the coffee table opposite Sherlock's head. He knew Sherlock was tired, knew that his sleep had been interrupted and insufficient, and hoped a gentle approach might not agitate him further. He slid a hand to his arm, a centering, calming touchpoint, he wished anyway. In a low voice, "Hey, you might want to wake up for this anyway."

"Piss off." His voice was gruff, annoyed, and quietly indignant.

John glanced at the officer again, who was both entertained and slightly surprised at the interaction. "Sorry not exactly a good time."

"John," came another warning from the couch. Under John's hand still resting on his arm, he could feel a rumbling tremor, aggravation, a threat and a growl.

With Sherlock's eyes closed and his head turned away, John couldn't help the immediate reaction to Sherlock's whinging - a grin. He shrugged at the officer, who commiserated with a small smile and a return shrug of his own. "I can see that. Perhaps we could talk in the hall?" he suggested.

John knew exactly why he felt that way, and opted to draw it out slightly, with any good fortune to amuse Sherlock and allow him a few more moments to fully awaken. "Why?" he asked, rhetorically. "I might have made the actual phone call, but that was not my information. It was not me who put it together."

John watched as Greg's mouth was already forming a response, a question - _then who was it?_ \- when Greg's eyes met his again, and John looked very pointedly, tipping his head to indicate his source - Sherlock. The question went unasked.

"Sherlock. There's someone here about the tip. DI Greg Lestrade." His body stilled completely, listening and motionless then from under the blanket. "About your tip."

One eye opened, blinked sharply, the rotation of cornea and pupil toward John. Checking for seriousness, for assurance of no, not kidding. "Really?" A hand on the couch, pressing upward so that Sherlock pushed himself to a sitting position, mostly. He still looked exhausted, and John could see the DI taking in the unkemptness, the age, the fact that John was there at all in his role.

Lestrade opted to cease towering over him, sat down in a close-by chair. Sherlock swung his feet to the floor then, and ran his fingers quickly through his hair though it left his curls still unruly. He brushed a hand over his face, willing himself to more full alertness. "Need to ask you a few questions, find out how you came to know ..." and the DI looked up from his notepad, then held where he was, mid-sentence, staring at Sherlock as if seeing him head on for the first time.

John, however, was watching Sherlock, who had a similar look of recognition about him. Nary a word was spoken initially, just a few moments of eye contact that led John to feel both uncertain and warily defensive at the same time. He opted to wait them both out.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "I've seen you before."

With a degree of snarkiness, Sherlock must've felt he had the upper hand. "Yes you have."

"Recently, late night?" he tilted his head, trying to figure it out. "Bar fight?"

Sherlock shook his head, positively gloating.

Lestrade was struggling, frowning, trying to remember as he looked intently at Sherlock. "Give me a minute, I'll think of it."

"Doubtful." Neither looked at John. "Though about what one would expect from an --"

"Stop right there," John interjected quickly, managing to interrupt the insult certain to follow. "Bit not good."

A few sighs, and Sherlock had no inclination of stating the connection, so Greg seemed to change gears, begin to move past that. "Name please?" Sherlock told him, and that association didn't jar loose any recall either. "I'm here to find out how you knew about the case, the missing property, the green ladder specifically." He looked back toward John, studying him, a casual question.

"Obvious. Neighbouring homes, hiding things in plain sight, a superstitious person would never walk under a ladder, therefore it could be none other than..." and Sherlock wandered down where his mind had obviously linked details released by the press, put it all together.

"How on earth could you have possibly known that?"

"Because you are all idiots."

"Sherlock," John said again, quietly.

Lestrade smiled, "Riiiiiight!" laugh lines developing as his eyes crinkled and a short chuckle at Sherlock's phrase. "I knew I'd ... That's where I remember you from." He sat taller in the chair, obviously pleased and smiling knowingly, very engaged now. "You probably don't remember."

"Of course I do."

"Yeah?" Greg still looked somewhat unsure.

"Look, I don't often have need to run from the police, but when I do, I remember it."

"So that's all, the old man and the stolen violin." A few scrawls on the notepad, biro clicked closed, both pocketed.

"Obviously."

"So," Lestrade began, taking a bit of a look around, considering the room, the time of day - nearly afternoon - with Sherlock still laying down, the entire presence of John there at all (and a reflection of his role). He seemed to see it all - the slippers, the meals, the fact that John was attentive and guarding. "You were definitely not well then." Although the DI continued to look at Sherlock, Sherlock on the other hand was mildly uncomfortable, unable to sustain eye contact at close range, and glanced at John seemingly for support. He was, John could see, worrying at his lip. John considered the dynamics at play, the possible threat Sherlock might've been feeling, and, protectively, he imagined stepping in, asking the DI to leave but held off until there was a legitimate reason. He knew timing was everything as Sherlock had to deal with something unexpected for them both. "It's nice," the detective continued, "to see that you're obviously doing better."

"Are we done here?" Sherlock asked, very closed again, flicking a switch on his demeanor, back to irritable and dismissive.

"I suppose." Lestrade looked between them, contemplative. "Solved the case. Not sure if you heard me say that."

A faint hum of acknowledgement.

"Confession, even, once he realised it had been connected, the ladder, the crime. Yes, solved." Lestrade seemed to be more curious, watching Sherlock, trying to get a read on him. Good luck with that, John offered silently. "Thanks for calling it in." This he directed to them both.

"Of course," John said quietly when Sherlock didn't respond.

Sherlock harrumphed, quiet, a bit of anxiety evident in his fidgeting and his body language, and Lestrade continued, "Clever, though, of you. Impressive. Not sure if it wasn't a large amount of luck, or a remarkably good guess."

"I never guess." Still dismissive, and cold. It wouldn't have surprised John if he'd lay back down, flopped on his side facing away from them both. Still he sat, eyes downcast. 

John could see that the detective'd obtained what he'd needed, but wasn't in a huge rush to leave. "Well, thanks for stopping by," John began, wishing to move things along before any serious unpleasantness happened. Before Sherlock did move from aggravated to visibly upset.

"Yes, I guess that's ..." He stood up, and tugged at his coat. His gaze circled the room and he spied something, then he wandered over to the desk, where the violin case was open, the instrument sitting cross-wise over the top. Clearly it had recently been played. "Yours, Dr. Watson?" he asked, cheekily seeing Sherlock watching, guarding, ready to protect if need be. John could see that Sherlock was very deliberately avoiding Lestrade's face, avoiding his gaze, though watching warily what was going on.

"No, that isn't mine," John said quietly.

Lestrade had been after Sherlock with the comment, anyway, smiled a little in triumph. "Ah. So that explains why you noticed."

John looked from one to the other again. A bit of a flush coloured Sherlock's face.

"That's why you were there in the first place."

"He was quite ... gifted."

Lestrade frowned, running a thumb very lightly along the strings and then up toward the fingering, the board. "The scroll, as I recall. You said the scroll was quite ... etched."

"Damaged, yes." Sherlock was uncharacteristically subdued.

"I remember that incident quite clearly now." Lestrade waited for Sherlock to respond, and when he didn't, he added, "I also remember that you were rather uncooperative that night. Ran off even." 

"Got away from you, anyway."

"Some folks cooperate with the police." Greg spoke as blandly as he could. "Especially those who have nothing to hide."

"I might, as you mentioned, have been impaired. If I wasn't at the time, I certainly was after. But also, you were annoying me."

"You were upset about your friend."

"He wasn't my friend. I don't have friends."

++

Greg Lestrade only chatted another few minutes before eventually allowing John to usher him from the flat. They both listened to Greg's retreating footsteps, the closing of the door to the kerb, the sounds of a car driving away.

"I'm sorry," John began, not wanting to ignore whatever they'd been not talking about, "for whatever happened."

"Yes, well."

"Don't let it overshadow the fact that you figured something out. You heard him. Clever, he said."

Sherlock did then flop back to the couch, pull the blanket up around him again. As restless as he was, not a surprise that he couldn't stay covered. "Don't forget impressive."

"Well, yes, of course, impressive too."

"Shut up, John. It doesn't matter. He didn't matter. Nothing matters."

"Not true, and you know it." Sherlock was back on the couch, facing away from the door, shutting out everything and everyone. John lowered himself close enough to lay a gentle hand on his arm, wanting the warmth and the sensation remind Sherlock that he was cared about. "You want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Well, if you ch--"

"When are you leaving?"

"What?"

"When are you leaving me?"

"Why would you ask that, first of all?" John knew Sherlock wouldn't answer that. "And second, I don't think you're ready. You are doing quite well, much better in truth, but we haven't even talked about --"

"You know what, never mind."

Rather than call his bluff, John set about to putting on coffee, making breakfast, and started to wonder how to prevent Sherlock from feeling abandoned when the time did come - eventually - for him to leave. It left him with a hollow, empty pit in his stomach.

++

Later that day, Sherlock was staring at his mobile, scrolling through heaven knew what. "Oh, that's rich," he said finally.

"Something you want to share?"

"It's you, you and your website advert. Your photo, for god's sake." Lestrade had mentioned it earlier, and Sherlock had apparently overheard it then, decided to do his own perusing.

"What's the matter with it?"

"Nothing. If you like false advertising."

"It's all true!" John said, trying to find some sort of passion in his voice without coming across angry. "Every word of that is tr--"

"Oh, please. You barely mention your military background --"

"Yeah, most people don't specifically want a drill sergeant, you know."

" -- and your biographical data is so benign that it doesn't even say much."

"Again, all true. Pardon me, yeah, for not wanting to come across as arrogant."

"But all that, the write up is fine, more or less. It's the bloody picture that caught my eye."

 _Picture? What picture?_ John angled his head, trying to remember anything even remotely remarkable about the photo. Nothing, he thought. "What's the matter with it?"

"Where are your reading glasses, yeah?"

"You're calling me out for _that_?"

"False advertising. You chose to wear them for marketing reasons, you think it makes you look more respectable." Sherlock was downright sassy. "Studious."

"I need them from time to time," he hedged.

"No you don't. You have a pair, that's different."

"I suppose, maybe that's true. Recommended to me by my website designer."

"Fake."

"Just let it go, all right? It's not like I promote myself as a senior physician with thirty years' experience. If people want to find a medical consultant, they have others to choose from, or other programmes. It's a small detail, I'll grant you..."

"They age you."

"They're _respectable_."

"I don't like them."

"I'm not re-doing it. If it bothers you, just stop looking at it." John good naturedly reached for Sherlock's mobile anyway, who pulled it back away from him, though tried no other evasive manoeuvers. "Why are you looking at it anyway?" John recalled that Lestrade had commented about his role, that there had been information available about John and his services. "Because that DI mentioned it?"

Sherlock held the phone away but his eyes met and held John's. Their proximity was near enough that their breathing was quite audible, chests moving, close enough that John could see the faintest green-gray flecks in Sherlock's eyes. "Curiosity of course. Funny what your profile says. And doesn't say." John heard the words, recalled that Mycroft had said something similar when they'd first met in John's office. Between his fingers, Sherlock waggled the mobile again. John thought about lunging for it again, and capturing it, decided to let it alone.

It did, however, get John thinking again about keeping Sherlock's mind engaged.

Later that night, while Sherlock was in the shower - briefly, door open of course, with John in near range of the door just in case - John sent off a short email.

++

_Dear DI Lestrade_

_Thanks for your visit today. I hope it was helpful._

_As you likely already know, my role as medical consultant tends to be rather unusual and involves getting quite familiar with those under my care._ _As such, I have a proposition for you. Can we meet to discuss it? It is regarding my current client, whom you met today, Sherlock Holmes. It might be a little unorthodox, unusual for sure, but I hope you will hear me out and give it serious consideration._

_Day hours, I can come to your office; evening, I can meet you somewhere. I prefer not to meet at the flat on Baker Street. The reason will be clear once I've explained._

_You already have my mobile number, am including it here again. Looking forward to talking with you,_

_Yours,_

_John Watson, MD_

++

While the email was open, he happened to glance at the email still in his inbox from Mycroft, from so long ago. He perused it again, quickly. It triggered a couple of new ideas, things that Sherlock might like, that might be helpful. He opened a new window, set a bookmark to deal with later, and closed the laptop. Sherlock was still in the shower. And he was whistling.

_Whistling._

++

"Molly's coming by late afternoon. I have an errand, and then I'll bring home dinner. Carryout. Indian tonight, I think." They'd spend the past few days simply trying to regain Sherlock's strength by staying more active during the day. There had been a lunch at Speedy's, a walk here and there, tea with Mrs. Hudson, a little bit of violin (not nearly enough in John's mind) and a few chapters of Treasure Island. They'd done some shopping earlier that day, so it was unexpected, what John was telling him.

Sherlock was taken aback. "An errand." John nodded, waited. "You don't want to tell me more than that."

"I should think that quite obvious. If I wanted you to know, I would have elaborated."

"Yes, well. Enjoy the interview for your next patient, then."

"I can assure you, it's not that. Promise."

Sherlock stared at John, disbelieving. Evaluating and finding everything he saw deficient.

"Believe whatever you want. But I printed out something for you to look at. Either now or while I'm out. Might give you and Molly something to talk about at least." He set some folded papers down next to where Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, taking a break from the microscope but making notations in a notebook in careful, small hand.

"No."

"Sherlock."

"No _thanks_."

John chuckled at his ridiculous toddler-like petulance.

"I'm sure I'm not interested in whatever you want to show me."

"Have you always reacted like this, your whole life, to a really rather innocent suggestion? Shutting it -- no shutting _people_ down without a consideration? Maybe it's something you might find interesting." A sneer, albeit a quiet one. "I would remind you, the concert ended up being not a bad outing for you. Perhaps you should give this a chance."

"Fine." The drawing out of the word let John know that it was anything but. Sherlock held out his hand, as if expecting John to then pick up the papers, which were very close to Sherlock's hand, and place them there.

John was sort of pleased at the audacity of the imperious request. Sort of. "I'm fairly certain you're quite capable, ta, of picking them up and reading them on your own."

++

Greg had wanted to meet at a pub a few blocks away, walking distance, and by the time John left Baker Street, he was ready to relax a bit. He'd had to fuss just a small amount at Sherlock, prompting the apology he'd warned him about that he was obligated to give Molly, which he finally but reluctantly did. He sternly issued a not-so-veiled threat that he was to be on his best behaviour. When Sherlock had raised an eye, sort of a gleeful _challenge-accepted_ gleam to it, John clarified, "By _my_ definitions, yeah." Molly looked on, her expression pleasant but sort of guarded, as if she was going to be watching Sherlock's every move that evening. "Shouldn't be long, Moll, ok? Reachable in an emergency." John tapped his mobile through his pocket, she nodded, and he was off. As he walked, he set a specific incoming text tone and was still grinning to himself when he'd set Molly's alert to the sound of a submarine dive.

The pub was not terribly full, a few patrons here and there, and he quickly spotted the DI at the bar opposite a football game on the telly. Quick, social greetings, and John ordered a pint and gestured to Lestrade to order one for himself as well. They'd chatted sports for a few, swapping a couple of stories from uni days, and John could feel himself relax a bit. The man was reasonable, good enough company, and sharply intellectual.

"So," John finally began, "thanks for meeting me, first off."

"Your email intrigued me."

"I'm asking a favour. One that will definitely require an open mind."

"I'm listening."

"As you know given my role as medical coordinator, I take a client, usually start off with very physical needs, detox, rehabilitation, and sometimes at that point, they return to whatever function they were at before." Greg was nodding, contemplative. "Sometimes it's then support groups, referrals to family counseling or career services. My present client seems to have few more considerations, some unique needs. And," John drew out the word while he searched for a blend of truth and tact, "not a lot of people skills," and at that they both grinned. "Yet," John amended. "But really highly intelligent, off the charts bright. Insightful. Analytical. A scary combination of perception and a complete lack of inhibition."

"With you so far. And not disagreeing, mind."

"He needs a bit of a challenge. A _real_ challenge, not something contrived."

Quite a few questions must have flickered through Greg's consciousness, and with a questioning look, he motioned for John to continue, to explain, to answer the questions he hadn't yet verbalised.

"I am asking you to consider letting him at some of your old case files, perhaps, not necessarily active. Unsolved ones. See what his brain might uncover, for him to take a look at." John's mobile buzzed, not Molly's tone, and he nonchalantly glanced down at the text. _Sherlock_ , of course, with a request for an immediate return phone call. "It could be beneficial to us both, for you, fresh eyes to take a look at things."

"I'm not saying no, not yet," Greg said. "I'd need to clear it with my sup."

"You probably haven't seen exactly what he can do, when he's cooperative, that is," John began, and Greg seemed to particularly react to that with a laugh. "He's really quite..."

The mobile buzzed again. Message from Sherlock. "I should get this, all right with you?"

"Of course. Got a story for you, when you're done, then, mate."

John excused himself from the table, dialing and then taking the call into a back hallway of the bar where he wouldn't disturb anyone else. "Yes?"

"I have an emergency."

John doubted that very much, and asked, "Does it involve a large fire or more than half of someone's circulating blood volume?"

"Not exactly."

"Go ahead."

"I need blueberries."

"What?"

"A carton of blueberries. We've been having a discussion on the merits of various foods, and Molly tells me that they are quite beneficial."

"So you want me to drop what I'm doing and go buy you a carton of blueberries?"

"Two."

"Sherlock. First off," and he took a deep breath, ready to give him several very valid reasons why his request was full stop unreasonable - and then he thought better of it. "Actually, no. This is not an emergency. I am in the middle of something."

"It's important." In the background, he could hear Molly trying to reason with him, too, to hang up the phone.

"I will be home later --"

"Bring me blueberries."

"-- with dinner --"

"I need them now."

"-- and we will discuss this."

"Two!"

"Hanging up now. Behave. Talk to Molly."

"I do not need a babysitter. Particularly one that refuses to do what I tell her."

"You absolutely do, and she is not there to accommodate your every whim..." _Drat_ , he realised that Sherlock had managed to engage him anyway and John stopped speaking.

"I told her --"

"Put Molly on, yeah?" There was an exasperated sigh, a grumble, and he whispered intently, "Now!" and then he could hear Molly apologising through the mobile. "It's okay. I'm ignoring him now."

"I'm sorry, John. You know how he gets."

"Yes, unfortunately. You call me, text me if there's an emergency. From _your_ phone." A grousing came through then as Sherlock continued to whinge. "An actual emergency of course," and she giggled just a bit at that when John clarified, "Not something that he feels is one."

"Sorry, John, I had no idea what he texted you, I didn't know --"

"It's fine."

John rang off, returned to where Greg was waiting, eye on the telly, beer in his hand a bit less full than previously. A glance from Greg, _things okay?_ and John's rolling of the eyes, _you have no idea._ They shared a grin and then were caught up as the room erupted in cheering over something on the pitch. His mobile buzzed again, drawing their attention, and he set it down between he and Greg to watch the rapidly-arriving text messages on the screen.

**This was an emergency.**

**I needed you.**

**You have deserted me.**

**Abandoned me.**

**Abandoned me in my hour of need.**

**This blueberry experiment is quite urgent.**

Greg caught John's eye, a questioning and perplexed expression. John nodded and shrugged.

**If you were truly interested in helping me, you would come home.**

**Ignoring me is a terrible idea.**

**I suppose I could set fire to the curtains instead.**

**Ah, yes, found the accelerant.**

**While Molly puts out the blaze, I'm fairly certain I can get away. Buy my own berries.**

**Or perhaps steal them.**

**It's just down the street, Tesco. Want anything else while I'm there?**

At that one, Greg gave John a quizzical glance. "You sure you don't need to intervene yet?"

Brushing a hand across his face, settling on his chin, he sighed and answered slowly, one eye beginning to twitch. "I'm not sure."

**Can't seem to find the lighter anywhere.**

At which point, John reached into his coat pocket, retrieved the object in question - the confiscated lighter, intentionally removed from the flat - and set it on the table by his mobile, where he and Greg were still watching his mobile screen for updates. Greg, John realised, was highly amused, and he was definitely glad he'd made contact. Perhaps, if they were all lucky, Greg could be one of those people who could assist Sherlock on his journey to wellness. And functionality.

Provided he kept his behaviour this side of completely outrageous or unacceptable.

**You really should be careful what you write in your journal.**

**I'm posting that on social media.**

"Which I don't keep. Never have. And no social media account." He and Greg both chuckled, but it was short-lived as the next text arrived.

**Never mind, I'm done looking for the lighter.**

**No lighter, no problem, fairly certain I can re-wire the toaster and use that instead.**

John sighed, picked up his phone.

To Sherlock, a reply text, **Don't you dare.**

To Molly, **Are things all right?**

**Yes. He's just a little ... barmy. Molly**

**Dodgy.**

**That too. We're ok, don't worry. Molly**

**Sherlock, no fires or threats of any type. Find something to do. Suggestions: violin, microscope, look at those papers I left for you. Quiz Molly on her uni projects. I'll bring dinner home in a little bit.**

Sherlock's texted response came back almost immediately. **Piss off.**  

John blew out a breath, shaking his head, feeling every ounce of pity he could muster for Molly who was stuck with the madman.

"Gotta leave?"

"No, his bark is worse than his bite. Hopefully." John turned the phone over so he couldn't see the screen. "This," he said, making a swirling motion over his face-planted mobile on the table, "is what I need to harness."

"I might be able to help, unofficially, maybe a few old, inactive files. If the first couple go well, or at least don't go badly," this was accompanied by two smiles and a mutual rolling of the eyes as John's mobile buzzed, "I will take it up the ladder and maybe we can work something out."

Two more incoming text message vibrations. John simply stared at the mobile, wishing Sherlock would entertain himself somehow.

"Not going to check them?" Greg was chuckling. "Oh, hey that reminds me," he began, remembering that he'd mentioned the story, that he wanted to fill John in on, the story of their previous encounter.

Another buzz, different tone this time but not Molly's. This time, John could feel the acid churning in his stomach, uneasy. Concerned that it might have escalated.

With a reluctant grimace, John turned the phone over to find a photo had been sent. Sherlock was holding one of John's jumpers under his chin, scissors poised along the garment, in the hand not holding the camera.  Molly's concerned visage was in the corner of the photo, and she did not look happy, clearly on her way to hopefully rescue John's clothing.

"That might be my cue," John said, sadly, shaking his head. "There's a fine line, risk benefit, you know." This text message, he opened, read, composed a reply.

**I do not negotiate with terrorists.**

Greg was still chuckling, and though he could tell John was frustrated, he couldn't resist teasing just a bit. "He's got a point, not your best jumper, there." John briefly glared as he stared at the mobile, laid down a note on the table to cover their drinks.

**Terrorists may find their mobile privileges suddenly revoked.**

His mobile buzzed almost immediately, but this time surprisingly, unexpectedly, the message was not from Sherlock.

**Say the word, Dr. Watson, and I can make that happen. _Instantly._ Mycroft.**

Of course. Sherlock had suspected as much, that Mycroft was monitoring the mobile, usage, purchases, etc., and John was not terribly displeased. Sherlock was, at times, more than one person could handle without a bit of help. Leaving that unanswered, John pocketed the mobile. Time had become borrowed time, and he was feeling compelled to leave. "Thanks for meeting me. You understand, I'm just ..." John could sense that Greg was a decent guy, one who cared about doing the right thing. They were both in service-oriented professions for a reason. "... searching for a way to help him if I can..."

"Desperate?"

"In a sense, I suppose. He just needs to find an outlet. A degree of purpose."

"I'll see what I can do. If there are no 999 calls from your flat tonight, I'll see about stopping over tomorrow."

++

By the time John hustled up the stairs, Molly had finally been able to redirect Sherlock toward one of her advanced pathology books she'd brought along. Sherlock was actually, vigorously engaged with the text, and had a thumb in between pages so that immediately, when John returned, he was ready.

"Look at this, John. Did you know that the _paramyxoviridae_ family is responsible for diseases like mumps, measles, and RSV?"

"I did, yeah. Med school, remember?" John came over to the book anyway to see the diagram he was intrigued by, listened to a few observations of why Sherlock found the diseases fascinating. He'd idly laid a hand on Sherlock's arm as he looked, then in the next moment of quietness, slid a teasing hand to Sherlock's ear, tugged once gently. "Did you know that you were a royal pain in the arse tonight?"

"I did yeah. You deserved it." Molly took in a quiet, big breath at Sherlock's presumptuous statement.

"Oh?"

"For leaving me behind."

"For a man who complained about not needing a babysitter, that sounds a bit childish to me. Wouldn't you agree?" he chuckled as he asked both Sherlock and Molly. "You do realise I do actually have a life apart from you," and he thought of his sister and his unit buddies (none of whom he'd seen recently) and his other future patients pending. "And that we are not connected at the hip?"

Sherlock, brow raised and a glimmer in his eyes, was sharp with his tongue and his quick wit. "We could be if you'd loosen up."

"Sherlock."

Molly flushed at his improper comment even as she searched for a diversion, "Thanks John, I really should be going." Disconcerted, she stood, eyes wide and in sudden pursuit of a hasty exit.

With a fluster and a burst of coat, book complete with virus photo that Sherlock initially tried to keep, she shouldered her bag, and stammered farewell to them both. Molly's feet were quiet and determined on the steps, the outer door closed, and they were left staring at each other. "Is this about you being worried that I'm going to, what was your word earlier, abandon you?"

"This is about you withholding things from me."

"You do realise that there are occasions, not necessarily to keep information private, but to wait for the right time."

"I am not a patient person."

"No kidding." John slipped off his shoes, prepared to get comfortable on the couch, the bag of carry-out at his elbow. "There are times, Sherlock, that you just need to trust that I've got your best interests at heart. Trust me, and when the time is right, you'll know everything you need to."

"I could make Mycroft force you to tell me."

"No you can't. And stop making this such a big deal, and all about you."

"How about another cigarette then?"

"No. How about we eat," and John began to unpack the containers of curry, samosas, vindaloo, "and you can tell me what you thought of those papers I left for you?"

"I didn't look at them."

 _Liar,_ John thought. "Why not?"

"Because you wanted me to. And because Molly was being all sweet and trying to be clever to get me to look at them."

"Really, do you get a lot of pleasure out of making things difficult? Does it get you the attention you like?"

"Didn't tonight." _Actually, it kind of did. Just not quite what you wanted when you didn't get your way._

John spied the folded papers on the far end table. Impulsively, he jumped up to grab them, strode down the hallway, and placed them quickly under his pillow. He wasn't outright looking to hide them, specifically, but if Sherlock was going to go after them, he wanted to make it obvious that he'd been searching.

"Vindaloo?" he said, casually. Sherlock's face, thankfully, seemed a bit surprised, expecting John to continue his persuasive tactics. "It's really rather tasty. Still hot, too."

Sherlock was just getting ready to have another strop. His lips thinned out, jaws clenched, as John dished his own plate, took a bite. He made a subtle display of enjoying the food.

"So now are you curious what they were?"

A huff of annoyance. "You must be painfully aware that of course I looked. I'm just not interested."

"Why not?"

"What makes you think I'd be agreeable to attend a _seminar_ , presented by community _leaders or experts_ , about topics that are likely lame, boring, and a complete and total _waste of time?_ " His sneer was followed by another huff. "As if."

"Did you even look at some of the titles? I happen to know," and John raised a brow, perhaps telekinetically reminding Sherlock that his brother had indeed given him some information about Sherlock's interests, likes, and remote activities. It is where the love of orchestral music had come from, not to mention the hand-rubs, nice clothing, and a few of his more acceptable meal choices. He continued, "that there were a few seminars, at least two, that you might be at least a little interested in attending."

Serious eyes, pursed lips. And stony silence.

"You didn't really even read them, the titles. Just saw it was advanced community education and decided it wasn't for you then?"

"Why are you looking to send me off for an all day class on something probably taught by an idiot? Do you really think I'm going to behave, pay attention and not hassle the lecturing buffoon?" Once he'd started to unload, it continued. "So like everyone I've ever met. Parents pawn me off on a nanny, Mycroft on a rehab center, professors on a poncy private tutor, violin teacher ... and now you, pawning me off on someone else too."

"Pawn you off?" John was puzzled, then realised. "Oh. That's why you... oh. Well, perhaps you should have asked a few questions before jumping to conclusions. The wrong conclusions."

"Obviously you've decided that you need to entertain me. Find little activities to fill the day until you're ... To keep busy. Playgroups, _reading circles, craft time_ ..."

John counted to three, steadied his demeanor, cocked his head and asked, "How many nannies and butlers did you go through as a child?"

"Lots." Sherlock was winding up a bit. "Loads, scads, tonnes, you get the picture."

"Did they quit before you pushed them away? Or did you push them away before you got too attached?"

A faint blush, and John wondered about the correlation between a person's haemoglobin and the ability to colour their own cheeks. Better blood count, he presumed as Sherlock set his jaw and wouldn't respond to that.

"Your wrong conclusions, do you want to know what I mean by that?"

"You're going to tell me no matter what, so."

"If there's a subject you think you could tolerate, with your blessing, I was going to enroll both of us. And go with you," _you berk_ , he wanted to add. "There were a couple of topics that I think you might find ..."

"Distracting?" Sherlock said again, still with the edge to his voice.

"Let's go for diversionary."

"Another bloody D. Great."

"Let's focus a minute here." John bit a samosa, offered the plate to Sherlock, who reluctantly took it. "I take it you missed the one on apiology." A quiet inhale from Sherlock, and a minute body adjustment as he sat up a little straighter, interested but trying not to act like it. "And you probably didn't see the one on forensic criminology either. I saw a few on orchestral strings, thought they are probably beneath you."

"Mycroft told you about my interest in bees?"

"He did."

"That one. Provisionally. And you have to go with me."

"I said I was planning on it." John tried to keep his relief on the inside rather than convey his underlying concern to the outside, where Sherlock would likely exploit it. "If you're sure, of course. There was a historical piracy class, but it was geared for fiction writers so ..."

"God no."

"We could wear eye-patches, brandish swords..."

"No.  _Bees_ , John."

"I should mention I'm allergic."

"Fairly certain there won't be any actual bees involved." A frown briefly crossed Sherlock's face that turned quickly to what must've been an epiphany. "We could bring our own - now _that_ would spice up the class."

"Pretty sure, that would be a bit not good." There was still amusement running amok in Sherlock's mind, given the smile on his lips and the crinkling of the edges of his eyes. John watched, enjoyed, for a few moments. "You did hear the 'no' in what I said, didn't you?" He nodded briefly, polished off another samosa. John watched the last of them - that he'd been hoping to get a few more of himself - disappear. "I'll register us after dinner." John sat calmly on the couch, refilled his plate with something else, vindaloo transferring from plate to fork to stomach. Inside, he was doing somersaults at what he hoped would at least get Sherlock thinking about his future.

"I suppose that's fine." Sherlock watched John take another bite. "Probably still be an utter waste of time." In an attempt to conceal the fact that he was actually quite looking forward to getting Sherlock to do this, John sighed not quite dramatically at his (really rather adorable) snarky attitude. Sherlock noticed. "What." More a statement than a question. "What's the matter, I'm just being hon--"

"No, not that." John let the small smile loose, pointed with his fork toward the carry out bag. "Just that I did something stupid myself. Shouldn't have." It was heady, having Sherlock's full and total regard as he scoped out John's words, his demeanor. "Knew better, did it anyway."

"What." Sherlock's word was quiet.

"Go ahead, then." He gestured at the bag again.

In it were two cartons of berries. The warm grateful smile bestowed on him was, in John's opinion, completely, utterly, _totally_ worth it.

He was less enamored when a handful of them ended up in the toaster. Scorched.

++

Later that night, enrollment confirmed for the following weekend in the apiology class, they'd prepared for bed, and John had something on his mind. Rather, John wanted to talk with Sherlock about something that was obviously on _his_ mind. Opting to wait until they were relaxed but still wide awake and the lights were out, he asked Sherlock a few idle questions about random nothingness. Then, looking from his cot to Sherlock's bed though it was dark, he said, "So, I feel like I need to reassure you that you're not being abandoned. We're not done here, by the way. I'm not looking to really get into a heavy conversation right before bed, but please don't worry about how this all works."

"I'm not."

"You might be. You've brought it up a few times." John had been hoping for more casual than this was heading. "It's a several week process, and you'll be key to the planning of it. It's different every time, so we'll talk about it. But it's not happening soon. Your brother, just so you know, initially asked me to sign on for six months."

"Pity you didn't take it. I could have talked him into more."

"I just wanted to make sure you know it will be a very planned, controlled, gradual transition."

Sherlock was brooding, and John couldn't see him so he couldn't tell if he was still annoyed, disbelieving, or bored.

"I do promise you, it won't happen before you're ready. All right?"

"All right." Skeptical tone, and John could have elaborated, but Sherlock was apparently changing topics, or at least, projecting onto something else. "So what was your appointment tonight?"

"It was a long shot. Probably won't amount to anything."

"Nothing to do with --" _your next patient?_

"No, not at all. One day at a time."

John could hear Sherlock slowly nodding against the pillow. And his breathing was more relaxed, sounding less aggravated. Or so he hoped.

In the dimly lit room, his eyes accommodated so he could make out shadows, movement, big shapes. John could see Sherlock restlessly moving for a few minutes, simply watching and paying attention. After a few minutes, the tossing settled, his breathing evened out, and both drifted off to sleep.

++

"No, no. Chop that way, away from your fingers," John directed. "Have you seriously never done this before?"

"I shouldn't need to remind you that you're nit-picking at me while I'm holding a knife."

"Could be dangerous, is that what you're sort of ... threatening?" John asked.

"Bloody dangerous in fact."

He went back to teacher mode, demonstrating a better - safer- direction and angle as Sherlock's fingers were perilously close to the knife blade. "Chop the onion and pepper, Sherlock. Not any of your skin, fingertips, or shapes out of the cutting board." Abruptly, Sherlock halted, turning to face John, the knife held loosely in his hand. It would have been a threat except that he was grinning ridiculously and making a low growling in his throat. "Or me," John added hastily.

"Nag."

"If you bleed into our breakfast, I'm not eating it. And I'm hungry, so, just don't."

John was tending to a skillet, heating oil and frying potatoes, waiting for Sherlock to make some sort of contribution toward breakfast. The morning had already been good-natured resistance, to the point that John was beginning to think it was Sherlock's baseline temperament - difficult and feisty. There had been a shower, coffee, and now they were working together on a brunch fry-up. There would eventually be eggs, as well, and ham. A few pieces of bread awaited toasting.

One carton of blueberries sat open on the counter, nearly empty. When John had set it there earlier, Sherlock had waxed profound on the merits of antioxidants and purple foods, punctuated with his sampling of them a few times. John had picked several up while he was talking, and at the first break in his diatribe, he lobbed one up in the air so that it would arc down toward Sherlock. Quickly, good reflexes and a rather permissive toss, Sherlock caught it. A smile was exchanged between them, working there fairly close together. It was, if nothing else, domestic.

"Are these pieces too big?"

They were, but John was not going to complain. "Look all right, should be okay. Toss 'em in." John watched a moment. "What do you usually do for breakfast?"

"Not this. Quick, easy, or skip it altogether."

"You should splurge every now and again."

"Mrs. Hudson takes pity on me from time to time."

"Right. She was telling me. Biscuits."

"Delicious."

"But not a lot of nutrition."

They shared companionable conversation in companionable space, and eventually ended up with two large plates of food, carried to the table. "Not so hard, then was it?"

"Too much work for one person."

"Not really, one fry pan, veggies, eggs, fry. Toast." John shrugged, tucked in to his meal. Sherlock ended up, with a few prompting questions from John, talking about some of his early fascinations with bees and how he got interested. So John had finished first, pushed his plate away, and was listening attentively when, mid-sentence, the doorbell rang directly to their apartment this time. "I'll just snag that, then," John excused himself to get the door. He cautioned his runaway thoughts not to get too hopeful.

++

"Can I help?" the young, 8 year old asked while the woman at the stove stirred one of the pots there with a wooden spoon. He'd already been shooed out of the parlour, the dining room, and the front gardens. _'Don't touch', 'the table is already set',_ and _'you'll get too dirty_ ' had been the admonitions.

"Not with this, no." She sighed. "Too hot."

"I could --" he began, only to be cut off.

"Does your mum need help, perhaps, maybe with the cut flowers? Or with her note cards she'll use for the presentation this evening?" Sherlock had already been banished from there.

"Maybe ...?" he asked then, picking up the knife.

A butler had appeared then, to bend low and chuck the lad under the chin. "Why don't you run along, Master Sherlock."

++

As he'd expected, and fervently hoped, it was Greg with a small crate of files. John greeted him, stepped back out of the way to let him in.

Sherlock sat straight upright, swallowed, wiped his mouth, and stared. "Good morning," Greg said to him, glancing between the flatmates.

John shut the door, came back to Sherlock, who sensed collusion, and turned toward John. "What's this all about?"

Retrieving his tea, John began to explain. "I met Greg Lestrade last evening."

"You said nothing other than it was a long shot." Displeased, yes, but Sherlock was also on high alert.

Greg spoke then. "It still is." John hid the smile behind his cup, as he watched Greg establish himself. Silver tinged hair over steady, smart, insightful eyes, Greg approached Sherlock with quite a bit of solemnity, conveying the serious nature of what he was suggesting. "Come join me over here, and I'll explain."

For a brief, horrifying moment, John thought Sherlock was going to dig in his heels about moving. But after a momentary tension, Sherlock stood up to join Greg, where he'd set the box down on the coffee table. Mentally he awarded the first point to Greg for clear directions and an unrelenting expectation for obedience.

"First of all," Greg began, "this is a favour, a privilege, and can be taken away at any moment, so please treat this opportunity with the seriousness it deserves." He explained what had been discussed, that on a trial basis, Sherlock would be given some cold cases, old files, inactive NSY investigations, just to see if maybe, _just maybe_ there was something that had been missed. He took the top file, opened it, and began to show Sherlock some of the cross-referencing, the tabs, the legend to their abbreviations.

"I know all that. Obvious." Both Greg and John turned to look at him, cautious and concerned. "I'm not an idiot. These things you're showing me, that's not what I need to know."

John worried at his lip with his tongue, held his breath a bit. He knew Greg was not a jerk, not by a long shot, but neither could he afford to let Sherlock think he was in charge, running the show, or even that he had a modicum of authority here. "Can I just tell you, my newest secretary, the one I hired right out of school, already knows something you apparently do not:  pay attention, listen, and follow directions."

"Then tell me something important. Because what you've given me already is pathetic and unhelpful." The delivery was just short of vicious, and John could see Greg completely engaged with Sherlock, not particularly rattled nor looking to react to Sherlock just yet. "I just need you to get out of my way." Imperiously, Sherlock tipped his chin up slightly, held out a demanding hand, waiting for Greg to hand over the file in his hands.

At that, Greg raised a somewhat displeased eyebrow. "Something else my newest secretary knows is respect for people." A few moments, charged, bordering on tense, went by. "Respect for me."

Sherlock parried back. "I dare say you don't need to be coddled. That's not why you're doing this."

"I'm doing this out of some bizarre desire to give you a second chance. Because I was approached respectfully," and John could almost _hear_ Sherlock's eyes rolling, "and asked nicely, and I think we could help each other."

"Then leave me to it."

"I'll be glad to step out, as soon as I have your signature on this confidentiality contract. And as soon as I tell you one more thing: any more drug use, even once, one slip-up, one overdose, one recreational hit, and this is all over."

Sherlock turned slowly to pin his narrow, suspicious eyes on John. "What, exactly, did you tell him?"

"Very little. But it is fairly obvious why I'm here with you, yeah?"

The stormcloud was gathering, atmosphere heavy with imminent threat of severe deluge, and John even tried to breathe quietly as he watched Greg and Sherlock meet and lock eyes. Briefly, Sherlock's eyes flicked to the crate, weighing the evidence, the favourable circumstance, the DI, and the fact that Sherlock was still a recovering addict in his flat with a 24/7 caretaker. He wanted it, what was being offered, apparently, more than he wanted to grandstand about it.

"I'm uh, sorry. Go on." He gestured to the files. "And then, please, where do I sign?" It seemed the restraint, and the words, were the sourest thing Sherlock had ever tasted, given the look on his face.

The knot of anxiety in John's chest relaxed a bit then, and the respirations didn't quite hurt so much. Greg gave a sidelong glance at John, then resumed his spiel about the records, filing idiosyncrasies, and enlightened Sherlock on where he might find some of the key bits about the investigators, the victims, the witnesses. "So if you need more information, there may or may not be any available. You'll have to email me, and wait for me to get back to you." With that instruction, Greg looked at Sherlock until he nodded. A stare at John until he did the same. "I have to tell you, some of these may truly be unsolvable. And the files should be as complete as they can be. But even a little bit of help, insight, tips, clues, connections - let's see how it goes, yeah?"

John was glad there was no challenge issued, no 'can't be done' or worse, 'many have failed before you got these.' Clearing his throat, John hoped to prompt the response that Greg was waiting for. "Sherlock."

"Yes, all right."

Greg raised a brow again. "You change your mind, let me know, I'll come retrieve the files."

"I'm not a quitter."

"Good," Greg said, and pointed to the sheet of paper on top of the rest of the files. "And before you sign, I am putting you both on notice that if I choose, I can bring sniffer dogs here, and I reserve the right to random drug test if I feel it's warranted."

 _You and me both_ , John didn't say, but held up a hand. "We're only about, what," he glanced at the small calendar near the door counting days in his head, "a couple of weeks out from a medical procedure. His tox screen would light up now, probably, if you ran it."

"I hear you. I still want you to be aware that if I feel the need, at my discretion, I might. And I'll say it again: one strike, no second chances on staying clean. I will not work with you that way. Yes, it's that big a deal, so don't _eff_ it up." John turned to study Sherlock, saw him in turn studying everything about Greg, his demeanor, his passion, his intent to carry out the threat. John said nothing, knowing this was Sherlock's realm, his determination if he would agree to Greg's conditions. He finally nodded, the moment stretching between them while the two men sussed each other out. John could well imagine the mental chess game going on between them, because if Greg was playing a head game, Sherlock was too. Greg seemed satisfied enough at Sherlock's decision, must have felt that he'd been heard and understood. "Sign here."

Biro, long fingers, paper, the scrape of a flared signature. Greg held out his hand, palm up, and Sherlock proffered the now used pen, not quite meeting. Another display of wits, of a power struggle, of each wanting the other to give in first.

John had a brief mental image of the two of them squared off at a duel out of sheer stubbornness and a refusal of Sherlock to even think of compromise. _Dear lord._

Both men then turned immediately, intentionally, to stare with a mildly shocked expression at John. Sherlock was unsuccessful at trying to keep the grin off his sappy face. "Are you aware you said that out loud?"

 _Oops_ , he thought, _no I was not_. John let the chuckle out, turned into a full on laugh. Feeling freer and able to act, he approached the ground space between Greg and Sherlock, taking their hands and joining them, tapping briefly at Sherlock's to get him to let go of the pen. "For god's sake, you're a stubborn lot. Ridiculous." He eyed the paper, Sherlock's signature at the bottom, and wondered that it probably wasn't technically enforceable, given that Sherlock wasn't employed or obligated in any official capacity. Either way, a good start by Greg in all likelihood. John shook his head. "I'm putting both of you on notice, that I will not, under any circumstance, referee whatever scrapes you get into. Not taking sides. Not prying anyone's hands from anyone else's neck. Got it?" A chuckle implying at least tentative agreement, and John shook his head again. "And now, that taken care of, anyone else interested in a fresh cuppa?"

Sherlock looked longingly at the files, then at John to apparently gauge the expected answer.

Greg was the one who remarked. "They'll keep a minute. I think John needs to hear the story of when our paths crossed the first time." He chuckled faintly at the memory as he grinned then even broader. "So yeah, tea would be great." Waiting patiently at the table, then, he wrapped his hand around the steaming mug, blew across the top of it, smiled to himself.

"All right, that's twice you've done that. Grin like you have a big secret." Sherlock was watching Greg's mouth, his eyes. "It was not a huge deal, really. I came across a violin player --"

"That wasn't the first time we met."

Gently smug would have been John's caption to Greg's face as Sherlock froze, quite surprised, stared. He seemed to be furiously running through memories, thinking hard, eyes roving across Greg's face, taking in his whole presentation. "Of course it was. You're mistaken."

"I should preface that we didn't actually officially meet either time. No introductions, no pleasantries. The first time I met you was maybe six months before you stumbled onto the violinist."

"I don't recall that. You have me confused with someone else."

"Yeah, you were a little unconscious at the time."

++

"Car 19, Possible DIP, Fifth's Alley. Report of male juvenile, unresponsive."

"Car 19. En route." Having confirmed the instructions, Greg clicked off the radio, glanced at the passenger seat. Getting out from behind his usual spot at his desk was something that he both liked and disliked. Seeing real people, meeting real needs, that was good. Getting away from the mountains of paperwork, also a nice break. But the crisis, the drama and the poverty and the self-induced troubles people got themselves into, not so good. He checked his surroundings, pulled his panda car into traffic. At this rate, this time of day, it would take only a few minutes to get there. He'd so far had a not awful shift, ended up checking false alarms, helping with fender-benders, directing at a broken signaled intersection, written a few citations, and now probably sent to check on another drunk, intoxicated, or impaired kid.

His partner for the evening, Sgt Donovan, sighed. "Yup, wake him up, send him home to sleep it off. Again, probably." She smiled then, just a bit. "Maybe instill the fear of god in him."

"If we're lucky," Greg cautioned. "Though I guess that's better than leaving him there to get mugged. Or assaulted."

"Says you."

"Stay in the car, then. I'll handle it."

A few blocks further, Donovan spied him first, and Greg parked. Despite Sgt. Donovan's complaints, she did follow him out of the car, radioed in their location, lagging behind a little and assuring the scene was safe, given the seedy section of town.

Greg had bent over the young man, shaking his shoulder roughly and speaking loudly, "Hey! Wake up!"

The two officers quickly evaluated the scene. No paraphernalia, no overt sign of trauma, though they did not move him just in case of c-spine injury. Greg confirmed he could feel sufficient air moving with a finger under the boy's nose while Donovan stood nearby. "I don't recognise this one," Donovan said, tapping at his foot with her shoe. "Breathing at least."

"Yes, and his colour is all right," and Greg was relieved at that. He didn't relish the idea of CPR in a dirty alley. "But probably needs A&E."

"Narcan?"

"Breathing all right," and Greg paused, watching the chest rise and counting seconds in his head. "At least twelve." He pried open an eyelid, looking for pupil miosis and finding his pupils normal in size. "Not pinpoint, let's hold off for now. Not sure it's opioid."

"Fine by me, last time I gave it, perp got agitated, combative, ran off."

"This way, maybe, A&E can refer to NA?" He lifted his radio, requested ambulance dispatch. When that was completed, he chuckled a little to his partner. "Rock paper scissors, loser goes through his pockets?"

Donovan's scissors cut Lestrade's paper, which led to Lestrade's disappointing discovery that he carried no ID, no money, no mobile. There was, however, a small bagged supply of white powdery substance. They exchanged a look as, in the distance, the ambulance siren became audible. "A&E and then probably jail, looks like a nice way to end his evening."

"Alive, anyway." Lestrade pulled out his notepad, began to write, another Joe Bloggs report. "Second chance." This he directed to the unconscious form. "Must be your lucky day!"

++

"What hospital?"

"I don't recall that. Maybe ... You know, I'm not sure." Across the table, Greg glanced at John, back to Sherlock. "Apparently that happened to you more than once if you need that detail to figure it out?"

"Yeah, never mind anyway."

John found the story sobering, and said so. "Could easily have gone the other way for you. Few hours, left alone?"

"I'm sure I wouldn't have cared."

"Thank you might have been a more appropriate response." John caught sight of Lestrade looking at least engaged, not particularly surprised or upset. "And I hope you care now?"

"What answer gets me into those files quickest?"

"How about the truth and not a manipulative answer?"

His eyes fixed on the mug of tea in front of him, his finger flicking at the handle enough to slide it a few degrees, clockwise, counterclockwise, clockwise, then motionless. "I suppose I do. Right this moment."

John nodded, mostly pleased with the forthcoming answer. "Fair enough, thanks for that." Despite the fact that there was another person in the room, John did not want to minimise the significance of his words. "You're making progress, just so you know."

The mug moved again, slightly, back and forth, back and forth, as Sherlock nodded slightly, still staring at the cup. John stretched out his legs under the table, seeking to lightly brush against Sherlock's ankle with his, a gentle reminder, a nudge, a juncture, a linking of something like affection. When Sherlock raised his eyes, it was to then look right into John's. They stayed that way a few seconds, legs still touching, communicating their alliance without needing the use of words. John let the moment stretch out comfortably, then decided to continue their discussion.

"So the next time you met? Something about a violin." He left his foot right where it was, but shifted a little in the chair, sipped his tea, watching Greg.

Greg related the tale of the call during another of his shifts, that led to the discovery of a body. He'd summoned an ambulance, and then shortly after that a young man had arrived full of attitude and a very important observation. "First thing he said, do you remember?"

"Robbery." Sherlock answered coolly, his mood speculative.

"Exactly, robbery. Realised the violin was gone." Greg nodded at the files. "Might be nice to get that observation skill put to good use."

"So what happened?" John asked, prompting. He cast a glance at Sherlock, who was more quiet than he'd been. "Ran off, as I think you said?" He directed the question to Greg.

"As I mentioned, bit of an attitude. Arrogant for sure, late hour, unsafe part of town. Asked him if they were drug partners."

"Which was untrue."

"Do you blame me? Seemed a rather logical question."

"I had nothing to do with why he got killed."

"I didn't know that." Greg kept his tone soft. "I mean, I have a fresh murder scene, and in pops this juvenile..."

"Not a juvenile."

"In pops this young adult," Greg amended.

"With a known history," John reminded him.

"You were more intent on me than on figuring out what happened."

Greg chuckled, then, "Look, we had no information, and then you arrived, a bloody distraction." He leaned forward to explain. "An uncooperative person, a witness perhaps."

"I was not."

"Which you could have explained if you'd bothered to stay."

John enjoyed their banter, too much probably, but knew their time with Sherlock was limited before he simply left the table to dive into the material Greg had brought. A refocusing question, then, "You managed to track down the thief?"

"Pawn shop. Got records. Set up an interview, not me this time. But the detective used a bit of strongly worded threats, some hint of CCTV footage..."

"Which there wouldn't have been any of. The spot where he played, occupied, definitely out of camera range."

"Realised that too, did you?" Greg was smiling as he shook his head.

"Had a brother looking for me at the time. Learned to get smart and mostly avoid those bloody cameras."

"... and he confessed." Greg explained that there had been an arrest, a guilty plea, and the killer was now in jail. "So yeah, you telling us that, about the missing violin, ended up solving the case. Got a criminal off the streets."

John found himself gazing over at Sherlock's violin, still sitting, case open. He remembered Sherlock's emotional reaction to the concert, took a bit of a leap, asked the question. "What happened to the violin?"

"Returned to distant family, best I recall. Nephew, I believe. He was quite relieved to get it."

"Was that --" John began. Could that very violin have been used in the matinee concert they'd been to? He recalled the swap of instruments at the concert, the older, more distressed instrument being brought out for the final piece, the encore, and the way it had been played. More importantly, could that perhaps have been the nephew playing it? He jiggled his ankle against Sherlock's, and Sherlock looked up at him. 

"I think so," Sherlock responded.

There was a faint tremble of Sherlock's ankle next to John's, and Lestrade's pager went off. With an easy hand, he silenced the squawking, and stood up. "There's my signal for the end of my lunch break. Duty calls."

John stood up, too, though Sherlock remained seated and anxious-looking. Placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and giving it an affable squeeze, he thanked Greg for stopping by. Another brush of John's hand, and Sherlock realised what John was prompting him about. He stood, eyes glancing at the case files. "Thanks for this, and ..." his voice shook a bit, and he paused. "... for helping me, before."

"Of course. You're welcome." Greg smiled, closed the button on his jacket. "Glad things are looking up for you."

Sherlock nodded, exchanging a warm look with John, though neither felt that words were needed.

Greg extended a hand. "Looking forward to working with you, Sherlock." Sherlock reached out to clasp and shake Greg's hand without incident, and John was mildly relieved there were no further power struggles over something as basic as a handshake.

"I may need a licensed firearm."

"No." Greg and John answered together, immediately. Greg added, "To review case files?"

"Just for fun, then?"

"I think not."

"Nothing ventured," Sherlock muttered. "Anyway, maybe now you can improve your solved case percentages." The small smirk, definitely intentional, and the seriousness of the mood a few minutes before completely evaporated. "Looking forward to proving the idiocy of much of your workforce's previous efforts."

"Solve us some crimes, and we'll overlook your complete lack of tact." John's head reared up immediately, thinking Greg should definitely not have phrased it thus.

"I plan on doing exactly that. Tell your people I look forward to humbling them all."

"One thing at a time. Remember what I told you."

Sherlock's grin was big again. "I think I can manage that, Gavin."

Greg's beeper chirped again. "It's Greg," he muttered, clapping a hand on John's arm as he left the flat. He was still shaking his head as he trotted down the steps. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An incentive spirometer, like the one John used after his injury, can indeed prevent pneumonia and is usually hated by post-surgical patients. Once pneumonia has been diagnosed, the I.S. can help speed recovery.
> 
> Jack the Ripper. Legendary, unsolved, in the Whitechapel district. There are definitely tours.
> 
> DIP refers to a drunk in public.  
> ____
> 
> As always, please let me know gently if I missed something huge or if you find a typo. Thanks for reading along and hope you are still enjoying!


	16. Progression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Funny thing, wellness. When the patient is able to spread his wings and fly. And the doctor will no longer be needed.
> 
>  _Wanted,_ though, now that's another thing altogether.
> 
> ++  
> John Watson, Medical Consultant, has been working with Sherlock Holmes, recovering addict, for a few weeks. There have been some health issues, nutritional concerns, discovery of past trauma, a relapse, and most recently a bored, understimulated patient with a penchant for getting into trouble. John has managed to convince DI Greg Lestrade to let Sherlock review some old case files.

The first night that the case files had been delivered, there was a file-reading, paperwork marathon, as Sherlock insisted on paging through each one in their entirety. Some of them generated a rather vehement litany of complaints.

"Don't they teach how to investigate anything to these officers in training?"

"I cannot believe the lack of detail."

"Did none of these idiots even consider that they needed more information?"

"Listen to this sentence! It makes no sense at all!"

"How am I supposed to review anything and discover _anything_ when there are no photos, no eyewitness reports, no crime scene analysis?"

"Does no one know how to construct a complete sentence?"

"I'm emailing Lestrade."

Ten minutes later. "I'm emailing Lestrade again."

Two minutes after that. "Is there any valid reason why he has not yet answered?"

"Other than the fact that it's well past his usual workday hours?"

He made a noise of derision, studying his notes again.

John watched the stack of files dwindle, wondering about how best to help with Sherlock's productivity, focus, and more concerning, his time management. When Sherlock was still reading the final folder, John saw an opening for an intervention as Sherlock flipped to the last page. "That's enough for today."

"But this was only --!"

"No. Enough. You've made notes, you have some ideas written down." The unhappiness was rolling off Sherlock in waves of displeasure, and John kept going, intending to start this whole process well. "You have leads to follow up on. But not right now."

"I've barely started, here."

"A few hours sleep, and then we can discuss --"

"Not we. _Me_. This has nothing to do with you."

Okay, than, right to hard ball. It was not a far stretch to military muscle memory. Chest out, shoulders strong, the piercing intensity of his stare. The _I'm not kidding_ and _you will do as I say_  low octaved tone. "Except that _you_ are my responsibility. If this," John indicated the pile of cases, "means you're getting better, recovering, and moving forward, that's great. But I am here to ensure that you do it well, and do it wisely."

"But --"

"Sherlock, listen. I'm all about you doing this, solving these. I helped set this up for you, remember? I'm on your side, yeah?" He cleared his throat a few times, lightened his fervor, posture more relaxed, wanting Sherlock to actually answer. What he got was a flicker of eye contact and a nod. Somewhat passable. "But it means sleeping from time to time. Taking a break. Good nutrition. Being sensible."

"No, sensible is you. That's not for me."

"Then think about what happens when things get out of balance for you."

The silence stretched, and John hoped his words sank in a bit. All he could see of Sherlock was brooding.

"Why am I here? Why are there still cameras in various spots in this flat? Why are you fairly closely supervised at all times?"

John could see Sherlock's gaze randomly flitting about on the page in front of him, not really reading any longer and avoiding eye contact at all costs. He hoped he was at least listening.

"You understand what I'm asking of you?"

"Suppose."

John watched the battle still raging, as Sherlock was reluctant to close that final file in his hands. "Balance is how you stay healthy, avoid the things that will hurt you."

"Sleeping is a waste of time. Eating is boring."

"I think you're choosing to --"

A sudden epiphany must've struck him then, and his face lit up. "You still have all the stuff for a feeding tube? I could keep going without interruption then." He began to add something about that making John stop nagging at him.

"No." John could have chuckled - but didn't - at his suggestion, even as he knew that Sherlock would totally go along with it if John allowed it. "Not at all what I'm saying. A break. An actual, get up and do something else kind of break."

"I need to keep at this, while all these thoughts are fresh."

"Then make your notes, pick one case if that's how you want to do this." John watched him give very little indication he was actually going to go along with John's edict. "So here's the deal: You have fifteen minutes now to finish up, and then you'll eat something. A glass of water, pyjamas, all the things you regularly do before bed."

"You don't understand."

"Neither do you."

"Lestrade might email me back any moment."

"At midnight? I think not." Sherlock seemed surprised to hear that it was that late. "And if for some reason he does, it will be waiting for you in the morning."

"I'm not sure this, this this..." he uncharacteristically flailed for a word, " _micromanagement_ falls under your jurisdiction."

John could tell that Sherlock needed a black-and-white, line in the sand. He needed clear directions. "If I determine that this is in anyway going to be bad for you, your health, your mental status, you name it, I will pull the plug on it."

John let that sink in.

"So I think cooperation is in your best interest if you want this to continue."

"You're unreasonable."

"I want this to work for you, Sherlock, I really do."

"Certainly doesn't appear that way."

"This is me helping you. And for the moment, I'm still calling some of the shots here." They stared for a few at each other - one defiant, the other resolute, and John brought down the conversation a few notches. Gentler tone, softer delivery. "Look, get yourself organised tonight, and then we'll have - yes, I said 'we', on purpose, because that's the truth - all day tomorrow. Your brain needs a rest, too. You'll be sharper tomorrow after a few hours sleep."

++

John slept quite a bit worse than usual, knowing Sherlock was on edge and wanted to be doing almost anything else but sleeping. After two thwarted attempts to escape from the bedroom, John, in his fatigue, stood, arms akimbo, knowing that he must not give up or give in. Later he would question the wisdom of the decision, but for some reason, his exhaustion, his constant vigilance, whatever phase of REM sleep he'd just been awakened from, _again_ , he wiped a bleary hand across his face.

"Get into bed."

"I am in bed."

"Scoot across. I'm joining you. And even tired, I sleep lightly. The intention is to get you to stay here for a couple of hours." He made a fanning motion with his fingers until Sherlock did actually slide to the far side of the bed. "I will wake up if you try to get past me. Guaranteed."

Sherlock stared a moment as if disbelieving. "And you think this will help?"

"I'm limiting your options. Perhaps if you acknowledge that you need to stay abed, you just might f--"

"I need to check email first."

"No."

"But what if --?"

"No."

"John." The word was drawn out.

"Don't whine. Seriously, Sherlock. They called them cold cases for a reason. There's nothing particularly urgent about them. I know you're anxious and eager, but remember what I said. _Balance_."

A huffing exhale, and then the other side of the bed was still.

John kept waiting for more fussing, more complaining. At the bare minimum, he expected more dramatic sighing.

It was a beautiful thing when he could sense that Sherlock stopped resisting, was less tense. He was at least relaxed, and hopefully would be asleep soon. His own eyes drifted closed, though his senses remained on high alert.

Good thing.

++

The dream mixed with reality, and John's mind immediately lost all track of the dream because reality was quite effectively alarming him. And much more urgently seeking attention.

His eyes opened into a riot of dark curls, his nose inhaling and identifying the fragrance of Sherlock's shampoo. Two heads shared one pillow - _his_. His arm curled protectively around the trim waist in front of him. The sweet comfort of awakening with another's breathing, the companionable presence of another warm person was something he'd always enjoyed, and this was no exception. Except that Sherlock was pressing his bum back somewhat gingerly against John's pelvis, rocking slightly back and forth, and there was at least one erection involved - his. Pressing with interest against the back of Sherlock's thighs.

"Oh good, you're awake." Sherlock's voice was frequently pleasant to listen to, his diction and tone clear and crisp - when he wasn't fussing, complaining, or being stroppy - and in the morning particularly, it was a little rougher and deeper.

_Rougher. Deeper. Oh my._

John pulled his arm away from where it had wrapped around Sherlock, slid backward as rapidly as he was able, trying to put some space between their bodies. Sherlock, once freed however, executed a quick roll himself, doing a one-eighty until he was then facing John, his own arm then circling John's waist and drawing the gap between them closed again. He likened it to the quick snap of a venus fly trap. Or one of those huge, lunging, biting bugs he'd grown to hate in Afghanistan.

Correction, John realised very quickly with their changed positions. Two erections.

For a very brief second or less, John entertained the thought about staying where he was, giving in to what his body yearned for, held in Sherlock's long-armed embrace, the heat between them radiating under the covers. And then, of course, as what had to happen, his logical, rational, ethical self took over then, and he twisted from Sherlock's grasp to spring from the bed as quickly as he could. Words however, failed him, and he stood by the bed, eyes wide as Sherlock flung back the duvet though he made no immediate effort to get up.

It soon became obvious why. "Care to help?" he said, stretching out his long, lanky body on the sheets, his voice still gravelly. His hand came to rest on the waistband of the pyjamas. "I'll be glad to reciprocate."

John's words came through then, a whisper. "No." He looked away as Sherlock pulled away the string to slide his hand inside, lower, beginning a slow stroke. He focused on getting out, evading, fleeing as quickly as he could. "I'll just give you a few." His feet were not quite awake nor coordinated to leave the bedroom smoothly, instead, he tried for a hasty escape and ended up with a near collision with an immovable object, sliding hard and brushing along the door frame as he left the room.

The loo was only going to be safe for a short time, he knew. No matter, he told himself, this wasn't going to take long. A drop of lotion, the firm grip of his hand, a few pulls, and his breathing caught, hitched as his body tensed, convulsed, _released_.

Across the hall, he could hear a few gasps, then stillness, followed by some very relaxed, deep breathing. And then the sound of tissues being emancipated from their box.

An interesting beginning to another day in the minefields on Baker Street.

++

Emails flowed rather regularly in one direction, usually accompanied by expressive narrative subtext, which equated to Sherlock complaining passionately. Sherlock's notes grew as he compared the case files to some of the more reliably obtained internet research. John had provided Sherlock with his password-protected laptop to use for both investigating various things as well as creating a few documents as he reviewed, studied, and analysed. A few of the case file folders were returned to the Met, with a synopsis, written brief, and often, a well-written sarcastic solution. Sherlock worked with such fervor, intent, and zeal - using mobile, computer, journals, notes, and John's methodically insightful questions. Lestrade texted John a few days into the process to ask him to assist Sherlock with condensing his multiple daily emails into perhaps one longer email instead.

**I'll try. How many a day are you getting?**

**Yesterday was 27. So far today, somewhere around 10.** It was not even noon.

**Did you ask him already?**

**Of course. He said they're all important.**

John was already considering hard lockouts on the computer and mobile, more time sensitive restrictions if needed, perhaps email access limitations if Sherlock failed to comply, though he knew that drastic measures such as these would have serious consequences for himself that could quite possible be miserable. To Greg, **I'll see what I can do to take care of it. Might take me a bit.**

**++**

Not surprisingly, John's biggest challenge since the delivery of the cases was to help Sherlock establish a routine of eating, sleeping, and finding time for some other activities. He recommended Sherlock take a break from all the reading - screens, papers, or journals - and began to enforce a daily excursion. Their walks grew longer in both time and distance covered. They talked about whatever case Sherlock was delving into as they walked, bouncing ideas around. More than once, John was able to either ask a question that spurred a new, helpful line of thinking or pose a suggestion that Sherlock called idiotic and then had an epiphany regarding a new angle or detail.

More case files were set aside to be returned to the Met.

Nights were still a predictable struggle. Without fail, Sherlock did attempt to sneak from the bedroom at least once. John did not get into the bed with him again - _learned that lesson, thank you very much_ \- but did rearrange the room a bit, boxing up most of the supplies and requesting a courier service from Mycroft, returning some of John's own personal supplies to his office and the rest to Mycroft to be returned to whomever he'd obtained them from. This put John's cot a bit closer to the door and forced Sherlock's traffic pattern where John was absolutely sure to hear him. One night, he simply said, "Need the loo," and John knew better than to leave him wholly unattended. Sherlock had only managed a step in the wrong direction - from the loo toward the sitting room - before John cleared his throat from where he stood silently in the hallway, watching. Waiting. Knowing. "Oh, right."

"Uh huh." As Sherlock slipped past John, who waited in the doorway, John reflexively reached out as Sherlock crossed right in front of him, just as a matter of habit, directing him, ushering him along, as he walked by. The guidance of the hand was only meant as a passing touch, but Sherlock halted suddenly, which left John's hand just below Sherlock's waist. For a brief moment, John thought that Sherlock was very close to pressing his body full up against him. The expected, anticipated movement was nearly broadcast in his expression, the angle of his chest, the hint of excitement in his eyes. "No," John said, his murmur low and growling, ready to step away if needed. "You know better than that."

The flat was quiet, and if John had been listening, he might have heard the clock ticking the seconds off from the old relic that hung down on Mrs. Hudson's wall. He might have heard the faint creak of the roof as the wind blew gently from the south, as usual. He might have been inclined to listen to Sherlock's breathing - elevated, deep. Except that all he could hear was the thrum of his own heart beating loudly in his ears.

"You want it too," Sherlock whined, his own breathy voice quietly matching John's in intensity and gravel. "You can't honestly deny it."

He was right, John knew, but was reluctant to lay it back out for Sherlock to somehow use against him.

"Come on," Sherlock whispered, and he began to duck his head down just slightly, closer to John's face, giving the tell that a snog was very definitely coming. Their breath intermingled, the heat from their skin, their bodies, an aura around them, between them. It would have been so bloody easy to simply press in a little closer, an inhale forcing chests closer with expanding ribs, the hand that still lightly rested on Sherlock's back to tighten and draw them closer. 

 _Sod it,_ John thought, _just this once_ , leaning upward just a bit, the faintest brush of his lips lightly touching the bowed lips against his. A minor adjustment, head angled, nose to nose, and John's hand splayed out gently, feeling the firm muscles. The kiss deepened, evened out, more pressure, a deeper inhale, John's arm tightening and beginning to squeeze them closer together. "Oh god," he whispered, then their heads slotted together hard, mouths open, tongues meeting, that first electric force. It was a relief, finally, both of them with bodies nearly straining with the impetus to respond, more, more, _yes, more_. His mind engaged - _stop this, Watson_ \- though he deepened the kiss one final time, arms coming up behind Sherlock to hold at his head, fingers in his hair - _pull away, now, this has gone long enough_ \- a forearm behind Sherlock's shoulder, enjoying those few, precious seconds before he knew he would call a halt, knew he needed to cease and desist. Oh, the building, coiling desire...

"Enough," he whispered then, "this ends now," pulling his mouth away after those few glorious seconds. Stolen seconds. Shouldn't-have-happened seconds. Hands steady and now resolute, pulling away from Sherlock's head but holding him quite still, very close, tightly against him. "This is wonderful," _amazing, brilliant, incredible, I want more_ , "but ... no, we can't."

"Sure we can."

"I can't." In a quiet, calm, steady voice, John knew he had to say a bit more. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have even... done this much, but."

"John," the word, again, was a complaint, a plea, then a softer, " _I want_."

"That's not why I'm here. It's not on."

"But," Sherlock began, arms tightening, hands on the move, one holding at John's back and the other reaching down toward bum and from there, John knew exactly where he was headed (where he wanted him to head, same thing, he realised). _Not on_ , he reminded himself of his own just-spoken words.

"It's all right." While John spoke to Sherlock, he was also addressing himself, a deep breath, a mind made up, determined. His arms loosened up, eased away, sliding around to the front of Sherlock's shoulder, the other to his waist, adjusting the both of them, pushing apart, space between, a cooling down of the sensual need, the desire, the _want_. "I'm sorry," he said again, "I shouldn't have done."

_Oh, the want._

Unbidden, John's mind recalled the advice he'd presented Sherlock with those weeks ago - delay, distract, decision. He could delay this, distract himself, decide to be honourable. He inhaled, the slightest chuckle, regaining his own equilibrium. "I suppose sleep is kind of out of the question now."

"You could join me, you know." Glittering eyes, dark and stormy, dangerous.

And tempting, John thought again, shaking his head, his smile fond as the space between them grew a little. "Oh, Sherlock."

"I am _not_ going for a walk."

"No. Not asking you to." Disengaging completely, he steeled himself to do the right thing, prodding a bit at, he reminded himself, _his patient_ to move toward the bed. "Back in there with you. Sorry."

"That's the third time you've said that, and it's getting annoying. Sorry for what? Because the answer better be for stopping."

"Perhaps. But we can't, Sherlock. Not now, not like this."

"Not now implies later."

"Then I take that back, and stick with a simple no." John nodded his head again at the empty bed, covers mussed, warm and inviting much like the man himself, prickly edges and all. Surprisingly, Sherlock did actually climb into bed, leaving the covers where they were, expressing irritation with an unhappy curve to his mouth, arms crossed. "Thought maybe another chapter of Treasure Island?"

"No."

"Maybe ...?"

"No."

"Suit yourself," John said quietly, knowing Sherlock was also frustrated, rebuffed. He began to draw the duvet up across Sherlock's chest when Sherlock struck. A vice-like handgrip seized John's wrist, and there was a quick lurch of Sherlock's body as he grabbed, pulled with all he was worth, dragging and then wrapping John into a somersault type of crocodile roll, both of them ending up on the bed. Entwined, pressed together, muscles and virility and still with desire still simmering between them.

"Sherlock!" he chided, a bit off balance and twisted both over and under Sherlock's chest and legs.

Eye to eye then, John lay still. Tangled but choosing immobility for the time being. A stand-off, watching, glaring just a bit, waiting. He didn't push Sherlock away, not yet, though he would if he had to. Sherlock's eyes flicked to John's mouth, and his head began to lower.

"No." John uttered just the one word, undecided initially if it was going to be enough to halt Sherlock's behaviour. He vacillated between fighting himself out from his current predicament (which he could easily do), or giving Sherlock enough time to (hopefully) make the right decision. Quietly, he spoke the word again, more softly and more of a plea. "No."

It was enough.

Sherlock let go of him, movements frustrated and angry as he huffed, flipped to turn on his side away from John. Slowly, John removed himself gingerly from the bed, padded on quiet feet back to his own cot, pulled the covers up. It was a considerable feat, John knew, for Sherlock to have stopped, impressive even, given his typical aversion to following anyones rules, disregarding the consequence of his action. It also demonstrated wisdom, because John would have certainly reminded him what the word no meant in no uncertain terms. It meant that Sherlock was not only teachable but learning. A good choice. In the darkness, John smiled at the progress, despite the frustration - his, Sherlock's - in the room.

A hard swallow, a mulling over of the softness of Sherlock's lips, the shared, stolen kiss. He shook his head at his own behaviour, resolved to keep a bit more space between them. But oh, it had been nice, and even in the darkness, he knew he was smiling, fond of his patient and more than that. Deep breath from across the room, and one of his own, both attempting to be as quiet as possible. There was unity in their frustration anyway. John rolled over, knowing it was going to be quite a while before either of them fell asleep. 

++

"I have a request from Greg Lestrade." So far, there had been quiet cooperation that morning, neither of them specifically interactive with each other, but distantly polite. John was largely okay with it. And Sherlock was sipping his tea with multiple things in front of him - laptop, phone, folder, notes, notebook, and a reference journal about profiling.

A sparkling look back, a glimmer of interest. "More current cases? He needs more help?"

"Not yet." John was glad for the excitement anyway. "Fewer emails. He's got enough to weed through with this, okay, on top of all his other responsibilities. I don't think it's an unreasonable request."

"He's terribly unorganised and should have a better way to sort ..." and Sherlock continued, a small tirade of why the system was failing, his support staff horribly incompetent, and of course their solved rate percentage is abysmal. "Which is why they need me! What did they expect?"

John let him go for a few, and once there was a pause, he raised his chin before speaking. "You done yet?" A short nod. "This is his division, these investigations. These are his files, and you are an unofficial consultant right now. His turf, his rules. One email per day, all right? Whether you like or or not, and even though you don't agree."

A silent eye-roll and a downturned smile. "All right. Soon as I send this one, that is."

Of course, John realised. Still pushing limits.

**Sherlock's agreed to limit the emails to one per day.**

**Thanks, helpful. Greg**

**Let me know if I need to help reinforce his agreement.**

**I will. How's it going? Greg**

John wasn't sure how to answer that. **It has its moments.** His mind tried not to think of the kiss, the doorway, the bed-sharing, their history - successes at the hospital and improved physical health.

**Greatly appreciated. Greg**

**He's got a few ready to come back to you. He will be needing new cases fairly soon.**

**I'll stop by in the morning, exchange some unsolved for old. Greg**

++

One of the cases Greg brought was that surrounding a twenty year old unidentified body that had a lot of scattered information, random photos, conflicting eyewitness accounts, and more questions than answers. Sherlock began each day with it, a fresh read, talked about it from time to time, and when particularly irritated, would run his hands through his hair in mounting frustration. The file sat open most of the time, and began as a curiosity that turned baffling. That became compelling, drawing. An obsession. 

He began to get angry about it. A ceramic mug was thrown across the room. There was a yelling incident at Mrs. Hudson, completely undeserved of course, but it was likely that she didn't hear him, given that it was directed at her through the floor, rapidly and abruptly. There was a screeching session on the violin, also thankfully short-lived, as Sherlock did not have the patience for anything sustained. Mostly, he fumed and fussed at the file itself, annoyed.

Mostly John let him ventilate. But he watched the baseline emotional state never quite get back down to lower levels, so each session seemed to escalate quicker and to increasingly aggravated ends. He snapped at John a few times.

"I just need to clear my mind!" Pacing did not seem to help, but seemed a better option than continuing to yell intermittently at the file. He stormed one way, the other, finally stopped. "I need a hit!"

John stood up as Sherlock abruptly stalked down the hallway. "Sherlock." He was close behind.

He pushed into the loo, and John just managed to get his foot in the way of the closing door. "Get out of here."

"Don't do it."

"I want to. I _need_ it."

"Wait!"

"It will help me think."

"It will impair you."

"Get out!"

"You're better than this. Remember what Greg said, one slip and this is over."

An eye narrowed, a quiet gasp, and the pressure on the door vanished as John got his attention. "You wouldn't tell him."

"In a heartbeat, yes I would." While John did speak the words gently, he could tell they still were hurtful. "Not that I would want to. But you have a lot to lose here, a lot at stake, Sherlock, and we both know it."

"I can handle it."

"More than these cases, the files. Your health is at risk."

"It would be unfair of you to tell him."

"Then don't do it."

"John."

"Don't give in."

"Whose side...?"

"Yours!"

"You're a real wanker."

"If it helps motivate you, I will do whatever it takes." John gave back as good as Sherlock was giving. "This is not okay."

He opened the door so that he was full stop opposing John through the doorway, in more ways than simple body position, but in attitude, defiant stare. His nose raised along with an eyebrow, and he clearly in his head was ready for battle, dropping the gloves. "Whatever it takes? Then take me to bed." The restless-manic side of Sherlock was difficult to watch, that edge of not quite out of control but heading there, the escalating agitation that he was not equipped to channel yet. He'd asked for something outrageous, something distracting, looking to do anything out of desperation to lower the frustration. Or perhaps more get a rise out of John, something to draw his aggression, focus, and energy.

"I'll _put_ you to bed," he countered, the threat only half-real. "But I have to admit I don't think you'll stay there."

"You have no idea," Sherlock began with a snarl, "how frustrating it is."

"Don't I?" John took him by the elbow, firmly, guided him back to the couch, and surprisingly, Sherlock let John lead him there. "I certainly remember working triage and having patients come through, and knowing that some of them were going to die. Maybe in an urban trauma centre, with enough staff, enough surgeries, we could have done better. But there were times it was my call to make, who was most likely to benefit from the quickest care." For the time being, Sherlock was at least listening, though John could tell he was very much on borrowed time before he reacted again. "Frustrating? Of course. Did I feel like shit when I bumped someone else from the front of the line or when I knew my staff wouldn't have time to get to all of them? Making a decision that ended up life and death, literally?"

"You weren't by yourself. You followed protocols."

"At times, yes, but ..."

"Mindless. Pathways. Set procedures. No thinking required."

"That's enough. Do you have any idea what you're saying?" A snort was the only answer John received. "For that matter, where would you be right now if I followed a set of directions, cookie-cutter rehabilitation."

"On the street. High, happy."

"Institutionalised. Maybe overdosed. Certainly not here in your flat." John worked hard to keep the energy level sizzling but not to over-react. "Whether you agree or not, you're rather free here."

"Harassed. Micromanaged."

"I remind you what you've already overcome, your progress." Both of course could recall the exposure therapy that had at least helped Sherlock breach the doors of the hospital, have blood drawn, navigate his attendance at a concert.

"Unsolicited." Sherlock's words had a venomous aspect in tone and content. "Unhelpful."

"I'm just saying that you're not the only one who's been frustrated, had to think critically in a no-win situ--"

"Oh I'm going to win," he interrupted, and blew out a puffing breath of contempt. "This," and he gestured at the files strewn about, the random papers, a few things he'd tacked on the wall, "this is much harder, with no set procedures, no standards, and no help from you." John opted to keep silent, though he wanted to remind him that he had been listening, helping, discussing, offering suggestions, asking insightful questions. Sherlock rolled his eyes, staring resentfully back at John. "You had military protocols, you had it _easy_."

++

"Doc!" The sound came from the doorway of one of the transport vehicles that had just arrived, and John could easily identify the urgency of the summons. "Need you here."

The vehicle was full, too full, of seated injured, a couple stretchers, bloody bandages and the smell of gunpowder and blood. John peered in, surveying quickly, came immediately to where one of the medics was holding pressure over a wound. The medic lifted one corner of the dressing peeled back for John to find bilious fluid, bubbles in the abdominal cavity, and a sucking noise when the soldier breathed. 

"Resps getting more shallow. Sucking chest wound when I'm not holding pressure."

John put his gloved hands over those of the medic, replacing the dressing to hopefully minimise blood loss and prevent haemopneumothorax. "Last responsive?"

"Couple minutes ago."

"You gotta help him," came a desperate plea from a soldier behind John, and it was accompanied by a few taps on his back. "God, please! He's my brother in law, and I promised my sister."

John and the medic locked eyes, communicating a cautious reminder to tread lightly, speak little. 

Another medic came up from behind John, touched him lightly. "Rest of the truck, nine patients total, four of them with penetrating thoraco-abdominal trauma. Two head injuries both intubated, two compound fractures one of them with a tourniquet in place, vascular. Another died en route."

One of the CRNAs appeared in the doorway, her eyes drawn and searching for John. "One OR is completely down, electricity failed. Working on it now, but that leaves us only two." She spoke clearly, and waited for John to nod. "Who are you sending in first?"

So many people, waiting, hanging on his next word, depending on him to make an impossible decision where someone is most assuredly going to lose.

++

"In triage, the sole decision fell on me. Yes, there was a team, but it was my call to match acuity with resources and personnel." His voice was sharp as he recalled a few moments burned into his consciousness, unforgettable, tragic, unfair. "Felt like I chose life and death a few times. So don't think you have the market on frustration when you're unable to figure things out."

Sherlock stared at his meshed fingertips, or perhaps, not really seeing them at all, staring at the floor. Quiet, actually seeming to be paying attention. "How did you manage it?"

"One day at a time. One case at a time. I did the best I knew to do and focused on the number of people helped rather than the number in my head of those who I sentenced to die." Sherlock's gaze snapped to John's, unhappy with his word choice and obviously self-deprecating tone. "I know, lousy way to look at it. I think that's something we share, you and I, the ..." he pondered over using the phrase, opted in, "... self-loathing afterward. Because it's a hard-to-break mental cycle."

With a minimum of movement, Sherlock nodded, eyes downcast again. "Truth hurts."

"Yes, I would agree. Particularly when it's repeated. Which is why I'm here with you, to help you. To keep you right."

"Would you really tell Lestrade?"

Holding silent for a moment, John waited until Sherlock looked up at him again, pale, tentative, cautious timidly frightened eyes, ones that would be quickly wounded - betrayed - if John wasn't careful. He reached out a hand to grab Sherlock's, a gentle reminder that he wasn't alone, wasn't unlikable, wasn't deserted. "I would, though to do so would hurt me as well." Small squeeze of Sherlock's hand. "Negative escalating consequences are probably the most effective measure - _the most effective,"_ he emphasised, "in breaking patterns of addictive behaviour."

"Negative escalating consequences." The echo sounded harsh in Sherlock's faintly bitter delivery.

"It means --"

"I know what it means," he snapped.

John could feel him bristle, breathe, and then settle, a little bit. "This is hard for you, I get it. And I'm not saying I know exactly how you feel. Not knowing details, sensing connections that you can't prove, unable to get enough information --"

"Enough _right_ information."

"-- to figure it out." John could well recall the early triage rotations in the army, the second-guessing, the doubt that crept in from time to time, afterward. "You've solved a few. Positive outcomes. You've analysed more than that. You aren't going to get them all." He shrugged. "Take a break from Kilimanjaro or Everest. Find something smaller to conquer."

"The trivial doesn't appeal to me."

"Then find another way, an appropriate way, to blow off some steam." 

++

"Watson, you coming?"

"I'll be along." John stood at the bedside of a post op patient who had not yet awakened, worrying. He'd been too long under anaesthesia, a long case to repair an incredible amount of damage, too long hypotensive in triage despite massive fluid resuscitation. Pulse pressure narrowing, Cushing's triad, early signs of increasing cerebral edema, no urinary output.

"They'll let you know if you're needed. Let the nurses do their job."

From the bank of monitors, a chuckle. "Yeah, get out of my way and let me do my job." Ryan, the nurse, stood up to join the trio at the bedside. "I'll call you."

"First sign of --" With a very seriously spoken beginning to the sentence, John's finger had come up without a conscious decision, a symbol of his concern, urgency, and direction.

"Get out of my unit, Captain," came the fondly spoken, reassuring response. "You know I will." A sigh then, and Ryan continued, "And if you point a finger at me again..." the threat went unfinished.

"I know, I know. Sorry," John was quick to smile then, reminding himself that much of this soldier's healing was out of their control anyway, that despite all the aggressive measures in place or that could be added, the outcome was too tenuous to predict. "I'll check back --"

A hand was pushing at John's shoulder, in the direction of the door. "We're fine. I've got this."

"Call me if --"

"He gets more unstable. I know." John still hesitated at the door, and the nurse could only smile at him. "Please go, Captain. I'll send for you if I need you."

John watched the nurse's quiet confidence, hanging another IV bag ready to spike, glancing at the monitors, the ventilator, the patient, taking in the whole, critical picture. His boots barely made a noise as he crossed the camp.

The mess had been converted to a very make-shift karaoke stage, tables and chairs pushed to one side to leave an open dance floor, clusters of snacks, simple decorations. But the lights were low, conversation loud, and the opportunity to unwind apart from the typical stress a very good thing. Though the base was dry, there was obviously some alcohol that had made it into the room, discreetly and not the focus of the evening. A drink was pressed into John's hand, but he didn't take it, murmuring something about being on call. It took John a few minutes to actually enjoy the atmosphere. A few popular karaoke songs were done, one of them very badly, a rousing roomful of people singing "Don't stop believing!" From the periphery of the room, John watched one of his fellow medics grab the mic and announced a full-room participation song on deck. A smattering of applause, a bawdy joke, and then, "I swear to you, we are watching, and if you're not participating, you're doing the next solo, swear to god. That means you too, Lewis, I see you. And Boomer, you and Watson. Eyes on the room." He named a few others, then pointed at the soldier manning the laptop and sound system. Sweet Caroline was cued up.

John had just begun singing, along with the entire tent full of laughing, celebrating, participating troops, thinking this was a much-needed thing to do. His mind eased up, tension beginning to relax, the camaraderie of those he was with giving him an improved outlook when he felt a tap at his shoulder. "Ryan sent me to get you, doc. You're needed in post op."

++ 

Another new file ended up in Sherlock's perusal, and he spent a while reading it, twice over. Notes grew exponentially, the file re-read, while John fixed them an easy dinner of chicken, risotto, and peas. Once it was in the oven, he returned to the sitting room to find Sherlock flipping pages of the file with annoyance.

"Not enough information. Insufficient evidence. And blurry, too distant photos."

John peered at the open page, read a few lines as Sherlock elaborated a bit. "Autopsy report?"

"Yes. Aren't there usually photos?"

"Probably. Should be."

"Not here."

Seated across from him, John helped look as well, confirming the missing information. "If they were done, they are certainly not included."

"John?"

"Mmm?"

"You were shot in Afghanistan."

"And in the shoulder, but yes." A blaze of annoyance seemed to give John the inclination that his investigation was serious and that any degree of levity would not be tolerated. Or even acknowledged.

"Entrance and exit wound?"

"Yes, most often there is both."

"Can the exit wound tell you type of bullet? Angle of trajectory? Wound infection? Collateral damage?" He would have continued except that John held up a hand.

"Slow down, yeah? Depends completely, obviously, on all the variables, the type of gun. Distance to target. Type of shell. Location, of course."

"Wound infection?" Sherlock pressed.

"Mine did not get infected, fairly clean. But I've certainly seen some."

"Would a wound infection determine healing, scarring, residual deficit?"

"Probably, but again, it depends. An immediate infection, of course. Latent, maybe."

"Take off your shirt."

"You don't outrank me, you know." He narrowed an eye, not moving a muscle for the moment. "And I think we've had a discussion before about your use of the social niceties in conversations, you know, complicated, high-tech words like please and thank you."

_"John."_

"Still waiting." He opted not to call out the whinging.

"Please?" Though it was said through clenched, irritated jaws, John wasn't about to complain about that either.

"Not so hard."

"You have no idea." Growling his response, Sherlock grew impatient. _"Off."_ He glared at John's shirt.

With a smile, an exhale, and a slight shaking of his head, John leaned forward on the couch where he sat next to Sherlock, began to unbutton his shirt. Moments later, he'd slipped his arm free from the garment and Sherlock was studying the wound, looking, touching, sliding, pressing and feeling the entirety of his scar, more narrow at entry, larger starburst at exit, the ridges of scar tissue. He asked a few pointed questions, staring with furrowed brow for a few minutes while his mind must have been trying to make connections. A silent touch at John's elbow, lifting and moving the joint about as if testing range of motion, a deeper frown. The file opened again, and he searched for something, muttering, then finally gasped "That's it!" as he pointed to one of the words in the autopsy.

John was sliding his arm back into the sleeve when Sherlock explained quickly how he'd figured out about the lack of evidence and how helpful actually seeing John's wound had been. "Glad to help, I think," he answered as Sherlock jotted a few notes down.

"Wait, what are you doing?"

"I should think it's obvious," he replied, working the buttons closed, tugging at the neck, adjusting the fit.

"I want to see it again."

"For the case?" John asked. "You need more data?"

"I uh," he started. "It _was,_ for the case." There was a slight flush. "But I didn't get to really appreciate ... see... the rest, for other reasons when I had the chance."

"I don't think that's wise."

"Please?" His request was accompanied by a charming, disarming, wonderfully devious glint to his eyes and a devilish smile to match.

"How about a nice biscuit instead? Mrs. Hudson brought ..."

Sherlock was already muttering to himself, rapid-fire. John got up to retrieve the tin of them, and could hear a few words clearly, including _had my chance, blew it, stupid, stupid._

"Here, enjoy."

Sherlock glanced from the biscuits to John's face to his shirt again, a disbelieving smile about him still. "Yeah, enjoy, enjoy, _enjoy_. That's what I was trying to do!"

++

"Remember, tomorrow is that apiology seminar."

"I think we should cancel." Sherlock didn't even look up from what he was working on.

"We're going."

"I have things to do. I'm busy."

"Not open for discussion." John explained, again, about the need for balance, reminding Sherlock about why it was important. He mentioned the fact that this outing would likely prove interesting if Sherlock gave it the chance to do so. "You agreed to this, remember?"

"Not going."

"Actually, yes we are." Sherlock sulked the rest of the day. He ignored John's attempts at drawing him into a conversation. He barely picked at any of the food John had set out. He deliberately did not respond to John's instructions regarding the need to take a break.

Studying Sherlock with some intensity, John considered the totality of his actions before doing it. He weighed it, considered it, knew it was likely to get ugly.

And then, he uttered a low suggestion in Sherlock's direction. "You should save that document."

Sherlock glanced over, more puzzled than anything else, not answering or doing anything right away.

"Not kidding." John moved to stand at Sherlock's side, arms at his hips, watching, and he raised a brow in seriousness. _"Save that."_

A bewildered glance at the window. "No lightning storms. Why should I bother --?" John watched Sherlock's fingers on the keyboard as he complained but did actually save the document he was working on. "You're ridiculous."

 _We'll see about that, exactly how ridiculous you find that_ , John didn't say as he pressed the reset button on the modem, which paused, froze, then disconnected all internet service. He'd already logged in to change the wifi password, and watched as Sherlock looked on, horrified, wide-eyed, anchored in place by his surprise. At his elbow then, a quick keyboard shortcut, Ctrl-Alt-Del, John's fingers quietly pressing the keys again, and the laptop went dark. Lock screen became visible, as well, as it was kept, as John did not allow Sherlock completely free access. Sherlock was dumbstruck, incredulous for a few long, sizzling moments.

"What? You _can't! John!_ " Anger took over then, building, and John held steady as Sherlock began to clench his teeth, emitting a deep sound of unhappiness.

He held up a palm, hoping to calm Sherlock just a bit. "Remember what I said."

"I'm remembering right now that you're the biggest idiot on the planet. A bully. Control freak." Sherlock's speech, angered, was curt, clipped, and hostile. "Do you have any idea how close I was --?"

"Sherlock." The rant continued a few statements, much of it personal, exaggerated, slightly off-topic and focusing on John rather than Sherlock's responsibility in what had happened. "Stop."

"That was unacceptable. Reprehensible."

"Merciful in that your document is safe." John knew he didn't want to hear that, but needed to prompt him with it anyway. "Drastic times call for drastic measures."

"You had no right ..." Sherlock brought his own aggravated hands up into his hair, the curls already untamed and riotous, and grabbed at his head.

"Take it easy, there," John said, and placed his hands atop Sherlock's, hoping to prevent him from acting out in someway, hurting himself. "Now, just listen to me."

Sherlock did, though he continued to seethe.

"Take a deep breath." He let his words remain low registered and slow, removed his hands as Sherlock at least seemed a little less physically aggravated.

"Fuck you." Sherlock's usual derogatory statement was piss off. He saved this particular one when he was over-the-top furious.

"You'll remember, that first night. I warned you." John could feel the steeliness of his resolve, the affirmation that he needed to press the point here.

Sherlock stood, turned to face John, glared for all he was worth. 

"You don't frighten me, so the fierce look is a waste of facial muscles. Settle."

"I was so close. How dare you ..."

"You do realise I've been asking you to finish up."

"Two times. You at least usually don't get really annoyed until the third." While this was not entirely true, John had indeed allowed Sherlock to get away with this on occasion. "And I was tuning you out. After a surprisingly short amount of time, you're kind of like ... white noise."

"You don't say?"

"Yes, you know, that background hum, not all that important. Filler."

"Am I filler now, Sherlock? Hmm?"

"You could have warned me." Sherlock's words were out and then he realised that John had. "More than once, I mean."

"You are quite aware that I did warn you, and more than once." He watched Sherlock consider powering the computer on, his movements frustrated again, an unhappy scowl on his face. John kept his voice calm as he continued. "Should it really take more than once? I think I have your attention now, do I not?" There was a fuming moment as Sherlock shifted in the chair. "I think I'd like an answer to that. Out loud, please."

John watched Sherlock's jaws clench, hands tense, breathing muscles tight. Finally, he answered, "You do."

"All right, then. Here's what's going to happen. You're going to go get in the shower. Put on some nice clothes."

"All of my clothes are nice. Yours, on the other hand ..." Pale eyes cast a critical glance at John's attire.

 _Steady on, Watson. Don't let him provoke you_. "I'm going to make dinner reservations. And we're going to go, eat, have a nice meal, a nice walk outdoors home. And we will discuss this. Again."

++

"Angelo's?" Sherlock suggested. "Looks like a hole in the wall place."

"Italian. Small dining. Rave reviews. Family owned."

Before the evening was over, the owner - Angelo of course - had made the rounds of the dining room, stopped to chat with most of the customers, smiling at their compliments, offering some of his own, really working the room. A few patrons he knew well, lingered a bit to talk. Sherlock was watching him, listening to some of the conversation, taking it all in. 

"Your eavesdropping skills are a little obvious, you know," John whispered.

"He's in trouble." It wasn't much later that the door opened, then entered two detectives, and before more than ten minutes had passed, Sherlock had gotten involved. He presented a compelling argument that Angelo was quite certainly innocent of their accusations. The trade-off, unfortunately, was that to free him of the serious felony charge, it had been necessary for him to reveal his alibi and admit to a lesser misdemeanor.

Dinner had ended up a bit chaotic, one of the other waiters settling their cheques. They'd left the restaurant to find Angelo in the back of a police car, gesturing furiously for them both to come closer. Sherlock hung back against the building, fingers trying to grip the stucco wall, leaving John to deal with Angelo's beckoning. 

++

Heavy sigh, another call coming through the staticky radio, a juvenile drunk and disorderly on a quiet street paved with lots of money and carefully maintained, manicured privacy.

"Hate these calls to these snooty neighborhoods. Last year, had one who attempted to bribe their way out, brush the charges under the rug."

The other officer only nodded. "Not tonight."

"Nope." They would only be assisting another pair of detectives, providing transport while statements were taken, and as the car approached, there were a few adults, upset, a stunned kid in gardener's attire, and once they'd exited the car, they could hear another adolescent struggling and yelling in one of the single-roomed outbuildings.

"Interrupted a fairly substantial exchange of illicit substances, quite a bit of cash. That one," the detective clearly in charge said as they got out of their car, "to the A&E. Tox screen, maybe cat scan his head. Off his gourd."

The other officer seemed apologetic that the scene hadn't quite been secured. "Had to wait for extra hands, and he's barricaded himself in."

The voice was hoarse, punctuated by the occasional thump of a fist or shoulder, a frustrated pounding. Something else was yelled that sounded like 'not mine' and 'go away!'

The partners just arrived glanced at each other, shrugged. "I'll get the door."

"I'll do the take-down."

"Right behind you."

"Cuff and run. Agreed."

Tensions between the adults was high, serious, and removing the source of the disorderly person would certainly help, everyone agreed.

"We're coming in. Step away from the door." The officer placed his hand on the doorknob, confirmed it was locked, rapped sharply a few times.

They were answered by unintelligible, pressured speech, too fast to be clearly understood. Building entry - a lock pick all that was required - was quickly accomplished, both officers quickly securing the flailing limbs and body of the tall, gangly youth who'd made a futile, last-ditch effort to run past. There were quick, cautionary directions as handcuffs were placed, watch his feet, I'm bringing his right arm to the back, snap that cuff tight, seriously stop flailing, you'll only hurt yourself worse, I don't see a head wound, no kicking, knock it the hell off, watch your step, to the panda car with you, Holmes, you said his name was?

The back door of the car opened, and a new burst of effort to wriggle free happened, both officers needing help from one of those already there. More directions, shit, what the hell's he been using to get this violent? watch those damn long legs, here's the other wrist, get that other cuff on before he hurts someone, hold that door, come on you, into the car, duck your head.

A beehive of people were at the door, all of them required to force the still-flailing perp through the door. A sudden lunge, and the solid thwack of something hitting the door frame. More directions, get in Holmes, told you to duck your head, serves you right, shit he kicked my knee, watch out, don't let him hit his head again, hold him tighter will you? 

The slamming of car doors and shortly the car and its three occupants were safely inside. "Jesus," the driver breathed.

The other buckled his seatbelt, considered the rear seat occupant now quiet and trembling awkwardly sprawled across the back seat. He picked up the radio, "Transporting to nearest medical facility. We have the suspect contained without incident." A few further directives and responses were exchanged.

There was not another sound from any of them for the entire ride to the A&E.

++

John watched Sherlock warily consider the police car as it drove away, disappeared from sight, and only then did he speak. "He just wanted to say thanks. Wanted your name, is all."

"I don't do police cars." The tension in his voice was reminiscent of the terrible, stressed-out state he'd been in when he'd been vomiting blood at the hospital. "At all."

"Okay."

"No, you don't understand."

John recalled Sherlock's past, his breakdown as a teenager, remembered hearing the story of the family scandal, that he'd been hauled away and positively traumatised that time in France, when he'd been taken to a reclusive hospital for treatment that John strongly suspected he hadn't needed at all in the first place. It had been terrible, and repressed.

"You're safe here," John said, leaning in close as they stood off to the side of the kerb outside of the restaurant.

"I know. I'm fine." Sherlock did relax some once the car drove away.

"You did a good thing tonight."

"He'll still end up in prison."

John knew it was the truth. "That may be. But he'll end up with a lighter sentence this way, thanks to you."

The compliment left Sherlock acting awkward, and he didn't answer, simply nodded then looked away. By mutual agreement, they started down the sidewalk heading back toward the flat.

"Watching you work like that, make those connections for that one detective, the guy with the beard?" 

"Anderson?"

"Was that his name?" John shrugged, knowing that he personally paid quite a bit of attention to medical details, physical descriptions while Sherlock seemed to see quite a bit more data than that. "Anyway, it was kind of thrilling to watch you put all that together. Not exactly showing off, but really ... I don't know, _shining_ as you walked everyone through what had happened."

Sherlock didn't specifically respond to that either.

Smiling, John couldn't resist observing, "I've made you uncomfortable." Sherlock looked away, giving a slight bob of his head in agreement as John spoke. "Well, I'm not done, then. I was proud of you tonight."

He let the words hang, and Sherlock fidgeted, put his hands in and then out of his pockets. Finally, he must have struggled with a response, and managed to look at John with some seriousness. "His chicken parmigiana was delicious. Maybe Mycroft could get his sentence further reduced."

The rest of their walk home was slow, relaxed, and uneventful. Conversation skirted around the current cases, and John was careful that they analysed Sherlock's work habits before arriving back at the flat. Ultimately, they discussed the need for some stretches of time working but attempted more reasonable schedule. "But people do sometimes work eight, ten, sometimes twelve hours a day, John."

"Yes, but there are breaks. There is variety. Sitting, screen time, too much isn't wise for so many uninterrupted hours." John paused, then briefly touched the back of Sherlock's arm. "Look, I could bore you with the physiology of neurotransmitters and the brain's frontal cortex --"

"Dopamine."

"Yes, of course you know about it," John said more to himself. "Then you realise, too much focus without a break doesn't help, just as too much screen time can work much like an addiction."

"Oh well, we all know I need more of that." Sherlock aimed for levity, fell somewhat short in the vicinity of cynicism. "Obvious."

"Which is another reason we are having this discussion. I'm trying to help you."

Sherlock wanted to disagree, argue, and his expression was a giveaway that he was only seconds away from speaking his mind again.

John intervened. "I should remind you, that had I not insisted on a break, we would not have even been here tonight." Sherlock's brow creased. "You wouldn't have had amazing food. More importantly, you would have missed the whole arrest. Angelo wouldn't have benefited from your deductions, and ..."

"My _brilliant_ deduction."

"Say again?"

"You said it yourself, under your breath inside the restaurant, when I was giving my statement to that useless investigator."

"I did?"

"I heard you. Brilliant."

John couldn't stop the smile, then the burst of laughter. "All right. I'm sure I did. It was, overhearing what you did and putting it all together like that. But you're missing my point."

"Which was?" The rhetorical question came with a sparkle in Sherlock's eyes only to be quickly followed by something else, something exciting and vibrant. He reached out for John's hand. "While it pains me to say it, thank you for insisting."

"You're welcome."

"Solving a real-time case, one unfolding like that, was ..." A humble, sort of embarrassed flush coloured his cheeks. John squeezed silently in encouragement. "... was almost as good as ..." he trailed off, glanced away. "... something chemically induced."

John stopped walking, choosing to stand still while Sherlock's own words seemed to sink in. "I'd say, having seen you in a variety of mind states, this is not _as good as._ It's better."

"Perhaps."

"That was quite an admission. Thank you for sharing it," John said, slowly, quietly. "And I would caution you that it not to be forgotten."

Conversation ranged for the rest of the walk home, from the mundane and simple to the apiology seminar the following day. But inwardly, John was absolutely thrilled that Sherlock had stumbled on a new distraction of his own discovery. 

++

_Case notes._

_Objective: Sherlock continues to make significant progress. Speech is clear. Today marks nine weeks of sobriety (exceptions: one episode relapse during week four, and hospital procedure where he did receive both narcotic and sedation). Vital signs, mentation, neurologic assessment are all in normal ranges, likely baseline. There has been no cogwheeling. Cranial nerves II-XII intact, as are reflexes, coordination, gait. Sleep disturbances continue._

_Ongoing: Of concern now still is his ongoing sobriety particularly when unattended or sufficiently frustrated. Previous behaviour patterns are not entirely forthcoming. Response latency indicates he self-censors much of his conversation with an intent to either deceive the examiner or manipulate his environment. Prediction of successful rehabilitation remains unclear at this time._

_Productivity with vocation remains unpaid at this time, but private discussions with DI Gregory Lestrade indicate that preliminary approval for per-diem work is a distinct possibility, particularly given the heretofore successful assistance Sherlock has already given them gratis._

_Plan:_

_1\. Apiology seminar tomorrow, which truthfully may prove beneath him as far as content goes, but may still symbolise his willingness to trial new considerations as well as manage a socially challenging encounter._

_2\. Begin to formulate exit strategy with client. Transition challenges: multiple. Risk of relapsing chronic substance abuse. Risk of self-harm. Risk of alteration in cognitive function related to ingrained and patterned behaviour. Additionally, he is still nutritionally suboptimal with high metabolic demands due to lack of sleep, alteration in po intake, and ongoing detoxification process. Risk for repeat MW tear with resultant haemorrhage not appreciably higher than previous. Nicotine addiction and dependence; continue transdermal nicotine programme._

_3\. Need to engage client's brother for ongoing familial and social support._

_Expected tentative discharge date:_

This, John left intentionally blank at first. He looked away from his writing over at Sherlock, who was surprisingly, wholly engrossed in something on the telly for the moment anyway.

_Expected tentative discharge date: Unable to determine at this time. But preliminary formulation of transition planning will begin soon._

++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet again, a long chapter turns even longer - necessary transition for the boys - and the chapter count has gone up again. 
> 
> *hangs head with knowledge of many more hours of writing and editing*
> 
> **  
> Please let me know kindly if I missed anything. I look forward to sharing the rest of this story with you.


	17. Gain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary of the fic, a hurt/comfort AU where Sherlock is a recovering addict and John is his caregiver (given the lo-o-o-o-o-ong stretch between chapters - *hanging head and wishing there were more hours in a day*):  
>   
> John has taken on Sherlock Holmes as a private, in-home patient where he has assisted him through acute detox, anaemia, anxiety, relapse, an urgent medical condition (GI bleeding), a hospital procedure (endoscopy), and a connection with Greg Lestrade, where Sherlock is reviewing files of old cases. Sherlock is playing the violin again, and under John's guidance is learning to manage his time while working. As Sherlock continues to regain his strength, they have taken a few outings from the Baker Street flat, have seen a music concert, met a mutual connection from Sherlock's time on the street, and are ready to attend an apiology seminar.

"I must confess," Sherlock began, tucking the business card of the apiarist into his coat pocket, "that was much better than I was expecting." The smile was just beginning to bloom over John's face when he continued, "For a beginner apiology seminar at a second-rate institution like this."

The smile faded somewhat. Of course Sherlock would find room for criticism, and John had expected that. Or should have, anyway.

"Live demo would have added so much." Disappointment dripped from his words.

"Fairly certain the school is not zoned for a beehive demonstration. And the need to sign a consent waiver which would include the handling and risk associated with multiple insect stings would drastically hinder attendance."

"It wouldn't have stopped me."

"Of course it wouldn't have," John agreed. "A swarm in a setting like this would have been problematic?"

" _Swarm._ You're so dramatic." This was accompanied, John noticed, with a swirl of long coat punctuating the sentence.

"Anaphylaxis is dramatic. You know, suffocation, respiratory distress, death? Probably somewhere around 5% of the population is allergic."

"Including you, you had already told me that."

"Yes."

"Epi pen." Sherlock chuckled, added dismissively, "Obvious solution." He breathed in again, back on what had thrilled and intrigued him. "And if he'd have brought the hive queen, that would have been even better." The lecturer had been quite engaging about the queen's role in hive dynamics and responsibility, and even Sherlock paid rapt attention during that segment. Sherlock's lopsided grin offset his words. "You were just happy to get samples of local honey on homemade bread."

John joined in the laughter, agreeing, "Yes, it was delicious, and you're one to talk - I caught you nicking that second slice."

They had stayed just a few minutes after class to chat with the professor, who narrowly missed being insulted by Sherlock before John intervened and pulled him away. For a few minutes, they shared a comfortable silence, casually strolling through the building on their way to the nearest exit. The hallway was mostly devoid of students, as most classes had already dismissed. Another classroom door opened, and there was the immediate melody of a single violin that wafted gently from the room as a student ducked out for some reason or other.

Both John and Sherlock stopped for a moment to listen. Given that neither was in a rush, they ended up hovering there just a few minutes. The smooth notes sang, swelled to a peak, lowered in volume, settled, and finally ceased. A few minutes later that class, smaller in size than most of the others including the one on bees, dismissed as well. Though the students in the room didn't address them directly as they left, the obvious feedback and pleasure of the students was that they were quite impressed. 

Through the open door, the musician turned, just a brief glance, really, but _enough_. John reached out a hand in Sherlock's direction, touching him on the wrist as he sucked in a quick breath.

"Is that --?" he said quietly, quickly, still staring into the room.

"Yes." The musician at the front of the classroom was the same violinist who had performed that afternoon at the matinee they'd seen at Wigmore Hall. The same violinist whose uncle had been killed, the uncle who'd befriended Sherlock. The same uncle that Sherlock had supplied the missing detail that solved the crime. "It's him."

"I'd like to go in and say hello, if you're up for it." John of course was still at Sherlock's elbow, watching, steadying if necessary. His eyes were wide, serious, and sad. "Just hello."

"No. I'm not."

"You've already seen him --"

"That was different. That was safe."

"I think he'd be --" _glad to meet you._

Motion at the door cut off John's statement unfinished. "Interested in a workshop? Lessons? Theatre tickets?" came the interrupting question. The musician had apparently seen their interest, their hesitation in the hallway, and approached. In one hand was his violin and bow, the other holding out a brochure. His personae was huge there in the hallway, engaging and charming. Charismatic. A performer to the core, working his audience. With a warm grin, he waggled an eyebrow as he laughed. "You know, there's no place for a shy performer. I can help with your reluctance."

"I am not reluctant." Sherlock hissed but took a half step away, backing off. John took note of his defensive, protective body language. The previously uttered words, _don't hurt me,_ flitted through his thoughts as if Sherlock had spoken them. He briefly considered stepping between them to shield Sherlock with his own body.

"Stage fright then."

"I think not." Sherlock's tone was less hesitant - bravado, perhaps - and his chin raised a bit.

John could almost sense the good-natured sparring, the swordplay, the back and forth power shifting between the two men. "Oh," the musician said slowly, still quite large and assured. His delivery was both jovial and designed to create a response. "Lack of talent, then. I can help with that too."

Sherlock was uncharacteristically, momentarily dumbstruck. John couldn't stop the immediate staccato laughter of his own then, and he could only shake his head at their stand-off. "No, it's not that. Plenty of talent, now that he's got."

It was almost as surprising that the musician seemed to grow a bit secretive, grinning still, and tapped the brochure lightly against Sherlock's arm before handing the paper to John. "Guess you'll never know then, what could have been." With a dramatic turn, he quickly, dismissively, enigmatically, headed back into his room. Before there was even any consideration of following, the teacher was drawn into conversation again with one of the other students.

John had plenty he wanted to add to the conversation, but Sherlock grew closed, dark. "No. Drop it."

"Aren't you the least bit cur--"

"No. Seriously, John. _No_." There was a faint catch to his voice, and he glanced at and then began heading toward the nearest building exit. "Home."

"Can I ask why you're so resistant?" John followed, half a step behind, and spoke low hoping to draw Sherlock out. "I mean, you could certainly have just talked to him."

Sherlock only huffed, walked a bit quicker. With his long strides, he'd covered a few blocks before stopping to turn his irritation toward John. "Don't you see, I should have known it was coming, that the area was dangerous, that my drug use might've caught someone's attention, might have lured more unsavoury people to him, that I might have contributed?" He spoke quickly, animated, moved on. "I might have known, I should have prevented it, it might not have been my fault, but maybe it was."

John opened his mouth to offer reassurance, attempt to reason with him.

But before he could get a word out, Sherlock cut him off. "No. He was a good man, who didn't deserve it. I certainly don't want to let his family know that someone who might've been able to help him stood by and did nothing to prevent it."

"That's ridiculous."

"I didn't try to help him."

"You weren't in a good place yourself then."

"Waste of really incredible talent." Sherlock's jaw was clenched, face drawn. "My fault."

"Not your fault."

"I could have intervened."

"Your logic is flawed."

"It's terrible to feel guilty that you didn't do enough to help someone." He stalked off, then, his long legs leaving John a few paces behind. He slid the brochure into his inside jacket pocket as he followed. All John could see in his mind's eye was the young boy in Afghanistan. The young man in the village, who had been assaulted by a soldier, that John had operated on, tried to fix things. For his efforts, he'd been sent on a dangerous mission, the boy had left camp, the soldier left with no consequence. John had tried to do all he could, and he knew it, but still wondered periodically if he'd done enough. He let Sherlock lead the way back to Baker Street, letting each alone with his own thoughts. 

++

It was a couple of days before Sherlock picked up his violin again, though John caught him looking at it a few times, a mixed opinion on his face - I want to, I don't want to. But pick it up he did, and there was something deeper to the music, something more soulful. Mourning, perhaps. An expression of emotion. It made him realise Sherlock probably needed to confront his thinking, his misplaced guilt, his falsely assumed sense of inadequacy. Before talking himself out of it, he composed and then sent off an email.

And later in the day, when he received a response, he was not disappointed. It should be a start, anyway.

++

"Speedy's?" Sherlock made a face. "We never go there, unless you're desperate."

John smiled, tipping his head in his direction. "Or when you've incinerated something and the kitchen reeks again. Or is likely to be condemned by the board of health."

"I'm studying ash, of course there's some smoke to be expected."

"We're talking almost an arson scene. And air unfit to breathe."

"You exaggerate."

"Many things don't burn clean, and you --"

"At least it wasn't chlorine gas this time." 

John couldn't stop the chuckle, knowing Sherlock had a point there. Nasty fumes had triggered vomiting, the Mallory Weis tear, a hospital visit. "Thank god, yeah?"

Sherlock apparently still felt the need to justify the smoky, flaming event previously. "Studying ash requires burning various substances, compounds, and --"

"Things other than furniture and household items," John finished for him. "Pretty sure you won't find that in your protocols."

"It was not my fault that the placemat got in the way."

"Actually, yes it was."

"They were from Mycroft. They deserved their fate." Though he did not speak the word _hideous_ out loud, he clearly was conveying it.

"Speedy's. It's close, I'm hungry." John hesitated, hoping he wouldn't sense too much afoot. Not yet. "Ready?"

They'd placed their order at the counter and had a seat at the table in the mostly deserted cafe when John looked at his mobile for the time, and when he looked back at Sherlock, there was glaring involved. "What's wrong?" John was hoping for casual. Failed, apparently.

"What have you done?"

"What?"

"You're edgy, you don't usually care about the time. Coming here is odd." Sherlock glanced around, suspicious. "Not Mycroft, he prefers the pastries across town.  It's not a holiday, or an occasion, is it? Or Molly or Greg, for some reason..."

John shook his head, wanting to reign Sherlock in before he got too far afield. "I just wanted to ask you something."

"And something obviously with unpleasant associations, or you would have just done it already. At home."

Ducking his head with a faint, small nod, he agreed. "Sort of. Yes."

"What." A hesitancy from John led to a deeper scowl on Sherlock's face. "Just tell me."

"I sent an email to that violinist. I didn't say much, really, just asked if he did private lessons..."

"We already know he does, he _told_ us."

"... and if he had a moment to meet a potential student." Blink, blink, blink. Sherlock was quiet, still, almost eerily so. "You absolutely don't have to do it at all. You don't have to discuss more than your violin experience, if you want. Or meet him at all."

"Is he coming here?"

"Only if you say it's okay."

"Does he have any idea about the connection?"

"Not a one."

"I'm fairly certain you gave something away, made him suspicious. What exactly did you tell him?"

"That I represent a potential student. A rather particularly ill-temperamented student, which in my opinion isn't far from the truth."

"Oh god. So cliche."

"Told him we both wanted to just say hello, discuss the possibility of a session or two. Lessons, perhaps."

"That's not how this works."

"Never-the-less. He's finishing up a private lesson not far, could stop by either here, Speedy's if you want, or to the flat, a little bit later this afternoon."

"I don't want, and don't need, lessons." Colour suffused Sherlock's cheeks, down into his collar. "I don't think I can... He's going to hate that I didn't help his uncle."

"Then don't tell him. You don't have to say anything about it." John laid his palm against Sherlock's forearm, briefly, reassuringly. "That is completely up to you, only if you want to, your choice. But you won't know how he feels about anything until you talk with him."

Sherlock studied whatever was in front of him, seeking distraction. Straw paper, cup, speck on the table, anything that avoided an answer.

"If nothing else, chat with him a minute or two. Reassure yourself that he has not been devastated by what happened. Clearly, he isn't consumed by it."

"I hate that I didn't help his uncle."

 _And there,_ John thought, _is the truth_. "That," John said gently, his arm sliding along Sherlock's forearm as they sat across from each other, "is something we're going to have to unpack."

 _"Unpack."_ Sherlock repeated the word with a snarl of distaste. "That's ... such a therapy word."

"Call it what you will. You feel badly about what happened." 

"I could have -- should have -- done something."

"You did," John said quietly, having listened and heard and empathised. "You were a friend to him when he had little else. You shared the one thing that he loved more than almost everything else."

The pause that reverberated between them over the table there at Speedy's. Sherlock finally whispered, "His violin."

"Yes, that. And his music." Under the table, John reached out with a foot to simply come alongside of Sherlock's leg, another connection, a tactile reminder. _I'm here, we're okay._ "And when something awful happened, you didn't let the person who hurt him get away with it."

++

A few text exchanges, and the violinist visit was confirmed for Sherlock's flat later that afternoon for just a few minutes. When the knock sounded on the door, John was ready, hustling down the steps to get the door, while Sherlock huffed and sighed and paced.

"You must be Sherlock," the tall man said from the door. "I'm Joe." He was still holding his instrument - coming from a lesson, John had said, understandable - and his jacket was buttoned up against the cold. "I hear you wanted to say hello. Thinking about lessons, are you?"

"Not exactly," Sherlock said. Though he was nervous, a bit closed with his body language, John was pleased to see that Sherlock spoke directly, kept eye contact, and held it together while Joe considered him.

Joe glanced at John, who introduced himself quickly. "Oh, I thought you were inquiring about lessons. Did I misunderstand?"

"He plays. Quite proficiently," John said.

"I teach at all levels, so that's ..." He was staring at Sherlock again, intently, interrupting himself. "You look familiar, I think I've seen you." Another glance at John, and the connection must have clicked. "Yes, definitely. The hallway at the school that night, couple weeks ago, wasn't it?"

"Yes." John could tell Sherlock was still quite uncomfortable, and tried to absorb some of the tension in the room. "We were there."

Joe stood, much more subdued than he'd been, apparently reading (correctly) the ambivalence in the room, the discomfort, certainly more than met the eye. He exchanged a curious look with John, silently questioning and searching for any kind of direction or guidance. John simply smiled, conveying patience and hoping for tolerance. Another glance about the room, and he spied Sherlock's violin. "So you _do_ play." He shrugged out of his jacket, handed it out to John's arm, and crossed a bit closer. "May I?" There was an admiring respect, an appreciation of the instrument, as if he cared and it mattered to him.

At Sherlock's nod, he took then placed Sherlock's violin carefully against his chin. He plucked carefully, assessing tuning, then drew the bow slowly and steadily, hitting all strings and gliding, legato, along a few tonal scales and a thoughtful, slow, rich arpeggio followed by a few measures of something complicated and rich sounding and confident. It was a brief, flashy, lighthearted demonstration that sounded full and commanding.

A nod, a smile, a sparkling raise of his eyebrow. "This is nice. Tone, quality, polish. Nice wood. Obviously well maintained. Family owned?"

"Distant ancestor somewhere. Mine since I grew into it."

Joe held the violin up, peering from the bridge up the neck, considering strings and looking for warp, perhaps, John thought. With a long finger, Joe tapped one of the polished wood edges, sucked in another admiring whistling sound. "They stopped handcrafting this piece here a long time ago."

"Bass bar, yes."

"Makes this instrument a collector's item."

John recalled that Sherlock had hocked it for drug money, could still visualise the pawn shop where he'd taken the tag and Mycroft's credit card to reclaim it. Though he didn't laugh, he was certainly amused, shaking his head at the memory of Sherlock's antics. And then he sobered, as the desperation of the man - knowing what he did - became horribly apparent.

"Let me know if you ever decide to sell it."

"I think I'm hanging onto it, so." Sherlock looked pointedly at John, their eyes holding, communicating and sharing the memory without needing to say anything to each other. "Unlikely at this point."

"Good form. Yes," John breathed, "please keep it."

"Do you want to play me something? I'd love to hear it."

The rest of the room seemed to fade into the mist as both John and Joe could both see and sense the turmoil the question had triggered - I want to, I don't want to. Sherlock's brow furrowed as he stared at his violin in Joe's hand, occasionally glancing nervously at the man, the stranger, watching him. "I don't think so. Not today," he said, finally, quietly.

John made sure to hide the disappointment, moved over to stand near Sherlock so that he could be closer, let his hand brush along Sherlock's shoulder, then his hand stilled, resting against the back of Sherlock's neck as he sat still under John's touch. Though they were barely touching, the point of contact - John's fingers, Sherlock's neck - was comforting to both of them. It also seemed to convey something, something much bigger to the visitor. John spoke kindly, "That's fine, you know."

"Of course I do. I just ..." his voice trailed off, and the distress was obvious, that there was a connection causing it. "I can't." John cast a small, quick glance at the other man watching silently, a somewhat knowing and perceptive smile on his face.

Joe spoke, nodding agreeably and gently. Even his voice was soothing, calm, an interesting and surprisingly good thing after the energy from earlier, John thought. "Okay, agreed, it's fine. There are times it just hurts too much, I know, believe me. But tell you what..." and he stopped as he settled Sherlock's violin back safely into the case. From the outside pocket of his own instrument case, which he unzipped, he pulled out a folder and a couple of smaller, softcover booklets of Violin Duets. "I'd very much like to come back tomorrow afternoon." He rifled through the music in his hand, slid some of it out, and extended it to Sherlock. "Pick a couple of these, run through them, just get roughly familiar. I had an afternoon cancellation, so ...  Tomorrow, we'll play. All right?"

Silence.

John cleared his throat, seeing Sherlock's discomfort, knowing his ambivalence, his passion and his regret.

Sherlock remained silent, staring at the book that Joe was still holding out. His nerves got a bit too much for him to stay seated, and he got up, restless, took a few steps, burning off nervous energy, simply having needed the change of position, defusing his tension.

Still no answer. "Sherlock," John said quietly. "I think it sounds like a good idea." There was a moment, looks again exchanged between John and Joe, of concern and unspoken communication how hard to push. "No one's going to force you. If you're not interested, that's fine."

Sherlock shrugged, and John could recognise the uncertainty on Sherlock's face, the expression that seemed so much like he wanted to say yes. There was another faint frown, and then the slightest nod coupled with a slight exhale of relief. John knew he'd just given permission. The music book in front of Sherlock wriggled again, and Sherlock reached out to accept it. _All right, I agree._

"What time tomorrow?" John made sure he did not to appear too eager, simply asking the quiet question.

Joe consulted his mobile. "I can do anytime after four."

John was still standing close, and let his hand slide out to touch Sherlock's back again, his hand warm and confident as he could feel the tension through the back of Sherlock's shirt. There was a fine tremor, a catch at the unexpected physical contact. A mumble from Sherlock, then, who still stood there with his eyes downcast. "We didn't hear that."

"I want melody." Sherlock's voice hitched uncharacteristically. "Lead."

"Dear lord," Joe whispered, a short laugh, "really?" and John almost needed to bring his hand to his mouth to stifle the grin threatening. "Tell you what, you can _audition_ for me, then. The second violin part - harmony," he clarified, still slightly amused, incredulous, and he stopped, flipped open the book and pointed to one of the pieces, "on this one."

John was fascinated, his attention riveted on Sherlock and his surprising demand for the first violin part. He watched them make eye contact finally. Sherlock, defiant. Joe, intrigued. "All right." The agreement came as something of a surprise.

"Then you can have melody on one of the others. Your choice."

Too much elation, victory almost, in Sherlock's face. John could almost envision the time Sherlock spent sleeping dwindling away to practically nothing. Between his working on the files, and now this to focus on... Though, he was quite glad at Sherlock's reaction, his hopeful excitement.

Joe leaned in, one brow raised with a stern look about him. " _One._ And don't neglect this piece," he tapped the still open book, "just because you prefer one of the others. Discipline, you realise."

"All right."

"Thank you," John said, knowing Sherlock wouldn't consider saying it.

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock continued to look with a narrowed, analytic eye at Joe, who seemed to be nearly ready to leave as he straightened his sleeves.

Another drawn out moment, trying to feel the other out, and Joe finally smiled. It was a sad, introspective smile. "I have no idea. But you seem like you need it, under all the prickles. Music is too precious and too personal not to be able to enjoy it some of the time. Maybe I'm paying it forward by doing a favour, so you can pass it along, yeah?" A quick glance at John, and Joe's eyebrows went up a bit as he got an inkling he was closer than he could possibly know. "And maybe I still have some demons of my own. Music hath charms, you know." Chuckling at his own hint and at not needing to explain as both Sherlock and John nodded, he smiled at them both.

Before much else could be said, he'd gathered his coat, his violin, and pointed one last time at Sherlock. "See you tomorrow. Between half four and five."

++

Sherlock had tried to spend a little bit of time on resolving one of the more frustrating, long-standing, as-yet unfinished cases. After a few moans of frustration and an inability to concentrate, Sherlock was finally persuaded by John to turn in early - "maybe something will be clearer tomorrow, but for tonight, give it a rest!" - but even that ended up in a bit of tossing, restlessness. The voice that night, late, pierced the quietness of the bedroom. John knew Sherlock was still quite awake, given his breathing, movements, and even in the absence of sounds he could perceive the energy in the room.

"I'm not going to tell him, you know."

"As I said, you absolutely don't have to."

"You want me to. You think I should." There was some seething irritation in Sherlock's tone. "It's why you contacted him in the first place."

"What I think, and what I want, is irrelevant. It's not about that at all. I wanted you to have the opportunity, in case it would help you. And I wanted you to have it while I'm here to support you through it, if you decide you want to."

"Well, I don't. I won't. So get over your disappointment."

"I'm not disappointed in you."

"Of course you are. Or you will be." There was the faint sound of what John could tell was Sherlock's head turning on its side to look in John's direction, even in the dark. "I specialise in disappointing people. Ask my brother, ask my parents. There's a long list."

John reached out a long arm up over his head, the pillow compressing with a quiet whisp of air, and turned on the light. Both of them blinked a few times as the brightness was irritating and their eyes needed a moment to adjust. John wanted Sherlock to both see and hear that he meant business with what he needed to say. "First of all," he began with a stern inflection, "I am not, nor am I going to be, disappointed. I'm not." Sherlock stared, blinked, silent. "Dismiss that notion as a lie. You have overcome huge obstacles over the last few months. Huge."

A quiet snort spoke volumes that Sherlock didn't agree. Or at best, needed convincing.

Despite the fact that Sherlock wasn't watching him, John grinned. This, he knew, he had solidly in hand. "You arrived here still very addicted. Strung out. You made it through acute, physical withdrawal in this setting. Unpleasant, painful, miserable." Their eyes met.  A raised brow on John's face brought a head-tilt from Sherlock. An acknowledgement. "You struggled with your appetite."

"I still am." Some days were better than others. Every day required coaching from John, still.

"You're eating now. You allowed some artificial nutrition when it would have been easier to give up. You tolerated a blood transfusion here in the home, when it was scary when you thought you were going to have to go to the hospital." He hesitated, letting his words - he hoped - sink in. The pause seemed to lower the intensity of the words he wanted to say next. "You were confronted by a really traumatic discovery." He didn't need to elaborate, the electroconvulsive therapy in France being repressed. "Shortly after that, you had a bit of a relapse, but it didn't beat you."

"You were disappointed."

"I was. So was Molly. But the disappointment in truth was in your _choice_ and not in you." John stopped, grateful for the moment to express that. "Not in you," he reiterated. "More importantly, none of us stayed there. I can keep going you know, other things you've done, survived, beaten. Vomiting blood. The nightmare of the endoscopy." Sherlock's eyes were closed as John gentled and softened his tone. "That alone could have set anyone back to the beginning. But not you. You agreed to some exposure therapy."

"Did I actually agree to it? And give permission."

"You did."

"I took your hand and walked into a snake pit?" There was a small downturning smirk - amused, thankfully - on Sherlock's face as John looked over. He had an arm across his eyes and was otherwise silent and still. "I don't remember agreeing to that."

"You did, yes. Agree." John remembered quite clearly. "But really, a snake pit?"

"I hate snakes."

"Apparently," John breathed and could both see and sense Sherlock really listening intently, "you trusted me more than you were afraid."

"Or I could tell you weren't afraid of the snakes."

 _Yeah_ , John thought, _not really a fan of snakes either_. He kept that to himself. "Perhaps." He wasn't quite done with their discussion yet. "Tell me that wasn't affirming, though, being able to walk into that hospital --"

"Snake pit."

John ignored that. " -- and get blood drawn?"

"It was scary."

"Of course it was. You have some terrible associations, as I said."

Sherlock moved his arm then, turning to lay on his side, facing John. One arm, tee shirt bunched up over his bicep, reached down, braced him as he lay. Their eyes held a while and Sherlock tucked a long, bare foot out from the bottom of the bed. There was a still, quiet confession. "I could only do that because you were there."

John smiled, let his gaze linger, trying not to notice the curve of the arm, the shoulder, or the direction of Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock's boldly-assessing eyes, taking in John's vest, the blanket that was waist-high, the muss of his hair. John worked hard not to fuss, adjust, or hide but kept their conversation on topic. "It was hard. Progress. You allowed it, permitted it, and I was glad to support you. But it was still your success." John couldn't stop the chuckle as Sherlock deflected John's statements. "Just accept the compliment. Own it."

"I'm not sure... I suppose," he amended, when John thought to interrupt his disclaimer again.

"And obviously you have some associations that hurt, with the violin, too. That must have been awful, to find that, to lose a friend that way." Though Sherlock didn't answer, John could see the way he swallowed, the frown and knew it had indeed been hard. "Even if you never tell Joe anything, you have still stood in a room with him, tomorrow, hopefully you'll get a chance to play a duet with him. That's overcoming something hard no matter what you do with it. That already is absolutely not disappointing."

Exhale, sigh. "I hadn't thought of it that way."

"You put your mind to work, your analytical skills, to good use. The tipline, the crime that got solved."

"You're the one who called."

"Does everything have to end with you correcting me?"

"Then get your details right."

John could feel his skin tingle at Sherlock's sass, moved on rather than get sidetracked. "You've figured out some things for Greg Lestrade. Solving things, crime details revealed, that no one else seemed to be able to do."

Sherlock sat up straighter, a bit more engaged with John's conversational direction. Or so John thought, until Sherlock's face seemed to take on a mischievous air. "You took off your shirt to help me."

"That has no bearing on what we're talking about."

"You should take off your shirt again."

"Are you even listening to the point of what I'm trying to say to you?"

"I was not disappointed."

"Focus, here."

"Except when you wouldn't do it again."

"Sherlock." John's mind whirled a bit trying to get ahead of where Sherlock was trying to hijack the conversation. "Success, lately. You got your violin returned. You have a mobile now. You have made amazing progress."

"What would it take to get you to disrobe for me?"

"I'm not answering that," John said quickly, scrambling. "You let me read to you."

"Because that would have _disappointed you_ had I refused?"

"I needed an excuse to read the book."

"No you didn't."

"And tomorrow, you'll get to play a violin duet with a professional violinist."

"Semi-professional."

"Whatever." John could always count on Sherlock to deflect, redirect, project, or otherwise find a detail worthy of correcting or arguing. "I'm looking forward to it."

"You're not invited to listen."

"What?"

"I want you to leave when he gets here."

"Why the hell --?"

"When Joe gets here, you need to leave."

"Absolutely not."

"Then I'm not playing. Cancel the meeting."

"Why do you want me to leave?"

A small chuckle sounded then before Sherlock stifled it. "If you'll take your shirt off for me, tomorrow, I'll let you stay."

 _Oh for god's sake,_ John thought. _More manipulations_. "No deal."

"We'll just see about that."

"Sherlock."

He mumbled something about going on a hunger strike.

"I told you once I don't negotiate with terrorists." He'd been at the bar with Greg Lestrade, and Sherlock had been threatening an item of his clothing with scissors. "I still mean that." Another huff, and Sherlock flopped over on his side away from John. "I'll cancel, then."

"Turn off the damn light."

"Yeah, I think I'm going to read a bit before I do that." He picked up the book they'd started, Treasure Island. His message, that Sherlock was not dictating everything that went on, he hoped Sherlock was paying attention as John flipped a few pages, getting acclimated. "Want me to read some out loud?"

There was no verbal response, not that John could understand anyway, but he was fairly certain he heard the word 'wanker' being muttered into the pillow. John stared at the pages for a few minutes before it occurred to him his mind was wandering rather than any actual reading or comprehension going on. Once he'd turned off the light, he could hear Sherlock flopping again in the bed. The muttering then was a bit clearer and included the words 'about bloody time.'

++

John found himself watching Sherlock a bit more closely the next morning, as he went about reading and making notations about the current case. He nibbled on the food John set near him when requested, and agreed the first time he was asked when John suggested a quick walk to do some shopping. When they returned, Sherlock set the violin pieces up on a music stand, played through them a few times. It occurred to John that the pieces were beneath his talent, given the ease with which he seemed to play them, and play them well.

John happened to be watching him when he set the violin and bow down. The mid-day light was catching Sherlock's curls, turning them slightly ginger as he stood, regal and defiant as he stared down his nose at John. "So, are you taking off your shirt, or are you canceling Joe's appointment?"

"You realise asking me to take off my shirt is ... a bit not good."

"For science."

"No it's not."

"For my personal enrichment."

"I am not here for your personal enrichment. Or your entertainment, even. No."

"Because you have exhibitionist tendencies?"

"Stop." John didn't, not really, but still found the comment humorous. "No." The fact that he tried to cover up a smile, and Sherlock noticed, wasn't helpful.

"Then you can leave when Joe gets here."

"Not going to happen." Although John didn't think anything harmful was going to happen, there was no way he was leaving Sherlock alone if there was even the slightest suspicion that whatever would even possibly transpire might upset him.

"Why are you choosing this particular battle?"

"Same question back to you."

"Because," Sherlock said with a grin, "because I want it all. And I want it now."

"You can't always get what you want."

Staring, Sherlock seemed confused at John's quick retort. 

And he certainly didn't understand why John was snickering at it. "It's a song title, as was ... you know what, never mind." He took a cleansing breath, realising he didn't actually need to explain himself. "I can probably extrapolate that very few people told you no when you were growing up, did they?" John shook his head at Sherlock's face, his disdain for John's line of questioning. "That's not how I work. Nor is it healthy to always get what you want. Particularly when some of the decisions you have made in the past haven't always been good for you."

"How is you showing me your shoulder, your scar, going to be bad for me?"

"I can think of several reasons. With inappropriate heading the list. Morally inappropriate. Professional boundaries."

"You've seen me. Plenty of times."

"Doctor. Patient. It's different." John could see the deeper issues. "And I think, once you got that, which you're not, then you would just want something else, something more, just out of principle." John wondered if Sherlock was familiar with the children's book about the mouse and the cookie and the perpetual craving for more, decided he probably wasn't, so he didn't bring it up.

"I disagree." There was a rolling of the eyes, and Sherlock stared then. "You're making this a bigger deal than it needs to be."

"I'm not compromising my professional integrity for you." Part of John toyed with the idea of just whipping off his shirt and being done with the discussion, even as he reminded himself it would be a bad idea. "So, I'll cancel Joe, then. It's a shame, really. I got the impression he was looking forward to it for some reason."

John's thumb was poised over his mobile when Sherlock finally caved, his huff of aggravation clearly announcing his irritation. "Wait. Never mind." His face seemed to get so immediately and profoundly resolute that John was almost suspicious. "He can come. And you can stay."

Without another word about it, John continued to look hard at Sherlock, trying to figure out if this was all above-board or not. Something didn't seem quite as easy as Sherlock was trying to make it.

_Buckle up, Watson. You've probably got a live one here._

++

Joe arrived in a breathless, misty rush of not-quite-raining weather, and an apology for being a few minutes late. "It's fine," John assured him, taking and hanging up his coat and offering tea, which was declined. Instead, down to business, he approached Sherlock. Two musicians, two instruments, a common love of music.

"Ready?" Joe asked Sherlock, who was adjusting the fine tuning pegs on his violin as Joe pulled his own instrument from the case. "Which one first?" They stood side by side near the stand, angled so they could each see the music as well as the other person in order, John assumed, to watch for cues, fingering of the notes, bowing, and timing. When Sherlock didn't answer, Joe simply opened the book to the assigned piece, pointed to the top of the page. "Play out strong, yeah? I will match your volume and tone." The direction was serious, Sherlock nodded, and John was surprised to feel the slightest bit of butterflies, nerves, deep in his own chest as they moved into the correct, playing posture. His foot tapped loudly against the wood floor, setting a slow, steady tempo, and he counted off the first measure, then they both began to play. He'd chosen the work where he had the lead and Sherlock played along in harmony. The blend sounded tentative, awkward until they got a feel for each other, for the swell of the music, for their cadence. At the end of the short song, Joe held his instrument steady, the notes lingering in the room.

"Very nice. You play very well," he said then, lowering his violin. "How'd you feel about that one?" Sherlock was apparently surprised at the question, must have made a confused non-cooperative face. "No, really, I'd like to hear what you think?"

"Choppy and disconnected. It would be smoother if we did it again. Not my favourite work, though. There are better duets to be had."

"Such as?"

There was a cute grin as Sherlock's face twitched. "We can do the other one in your book first." Sherlock had transferred his bow to the stand as he flipped to the other work.

"You've got the start here, then."

Sherlock simply jumped right in, counting down unnecessary as his instrument had a measure or so alone before the other instrument joined, and the difference was immediately apparent. Joe played the supportive, harmony part very differently while Sherlock played the melody with feeling. Joe backed off with his part, letting the lower notes fill differently than Sherlock had, adding some flair and apparently extra swells and grace notes and fills underneath the smooth main melody-line. It was odd, John thought, to hear the startling difference between how Sherlock's violin was complimented by Joe's playing style. He was very skilled, yet let Sherlock's playing be absolutely dominant, featured, showcased.

After the final notes faded, Sherlock lowered his instrument immediately. "That was amazing. But distracting. Do you always rewrite classical composers music?" Sherlock chuckled at the thought even as he asked the somewhat edgy question. "I'm sure that's not what Bach had in mind with that."

"Bach loved music and probably would have enjoyed the variation on his theme." Joe pointed with his bow to emphasise his words. "In fact, he wrote many variations on his own melodies, his own improvisations."

"I know _that_ ," Sherlock defended himself unnecessarily. "But it felt like you were trying to upstage me."

"The first half was exactly as written, you realise."

"I do, but ..." Sherlock struggled a little looking for the right comeback.

Joe was smiling, but direct. "I don't think it upstaged you at all. In fact, I think it showcased you. It let your instrument be the centre of attention."

"It was distracting."

"We could ask Dr. Watson."

"He has an indiscriminate ear and no musical ability, so his opinion is utterly irrelevant."

"Gee thanks," John muttered.

"All right," Joe said, considering the book on the stand as he flipped one page forward, one page backward, casually browsing. "Well, now you know. Do you want to do that one again, since you're expecting some creativity this time? Or do you want to do a different one?" Joe chuckled quietly as Sherlock must have been wrestling with that decision, that choice. "You said there were better pieces, other duets, and I probably have a few with me. Or do you have something here?" Joe seemed unopinionated, then clarified, "I didn't want to give you something too hard right away."

Sherlock bristled, though grinned at Joe just a bit, as though he were mock-offended.

"You can hold your own, but I had no idea when I gave it to you. We could try something else, if you're up for a little sight-reading?"

There was a hard swallow again, a mild frown of uncertainty, and he hesitantly nodded. "Long as we slow it down a bit in the beginning."

"Of course."

They picked through a couple of other octavos, stopping a few times to tighten something up, to repeat a section or try something different. It was an informal, more relaxed few minutes, until finally Joe sighed a bit, checked his watch. "I'll need to be leaving soon enough. Another student this evening." Sherlock was reticent to speak, a small frown on his face, and Joe took note of it, opted not to engage with him too much. Instead he turned to John. "You enjoyed this too, I hope?"

"Very much. It looks like you did as well."

"Music hath charms," he began again as he'd said yesterday, then smiled and stopped. "Anyway, yes I did. Most of my students are a bit younger, and I work with them awhile, then feed the serious ones, the ones with remarkable ability to better instructors or tutors, depending on their talent."

"Have you played long?" John asked casually, feeling Sherlock's eyes on him as he posed the question.

"Long enough. But I come from a long line of musically inclined ancestors, most of them string players. Recently found the motivation to get back into it." He glanced at Sherlock. "How about you?"

When Sherlock kept silent, John spoke up. "I don't play at all. But we enjoyed your Wigmore Hall concert a few weeks back." Sherlock's eyes clipped over abruptly, and John made a small gesture of reassurance. _You're safe. It's okay. I'm not going to say anything more._

"Oh, yeah, that was a fun one. Their matinees are the best of both worlds, not the high formality and stress of the evening concert series, but still really wonderful acoustics and usually a very appreciative crowd. I love it there. Nice venue."

Sherlock seemed to have drifted off a bit for a while, lost in his thoughts, but rather quickly he stood taller, cleared his throat. "Your encore at that concert, do you recall it?"

"Of course. Apparently you do too?"

"You used a different violin for it." Sherlock's voice seemed quieter, less animated, more calculating. From where John sat, he thought about getting up to be closer to Sherlock, held his ground for the moment but on high alert. Protective.

"Yes. A sentimental exchange of my concert violin for a family memento. A keepsake, very special."

"I recognised it."

"The violin?" Joe gave a sharp burst of a half-laugh. "It was my uncles. You couldn't have done."

John's and Sherlock's eyes met, softly, briefly, a plea -

_please stay -_

as well as a reassurance -

_I'm not going anywhere._

Sherlock breathed deeply, quietly, and blinked slowly before beginning to speak. "Six months ago I was living on the street, high most of the time. Wandering about, pathetic, actually." John's breath caught at Sherlock's insight and honest disclosure in front of an almost-stranger. "One night I heard music, stumbled on a very talented violinist. A corner alcove. Seemed homeless or close to it. Tall guy, beard." There was a bit of heavy silence in the room, Sherlock watching Joe, who was stunned, quiet, attentive. "So yes, I was pretty sure I did recognise it."

"I'm not sure how." Joe shrugged with disbelief, looked over at John, back at Sherlock. "Makes no sense. Is that why...?"

"I used to find him in the evenings. He used to play for me."

"He was killed, you know."

A swallow and a nod. And a pained expression about Sherlock's eyes that made John's heart lurch. "I came round that night. The police ..."

"You're the one, then." With a serious and somber look, his eyes staring off a bit, he set his instrument away, and lowered his body onto the edge of the nearest chair. His eyes were wide, expression more flat, pensive.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, low, quiet, wary.

"The DI who investigated my uncles ... uh, attack ... he told me some drugged up, strung out hooligan clued him in on the robbery." Both were somber, both remembering a time gone by. John let the silence stretch out just a bit, could see Sherlock's unease.

Looking to diffuse the tension just a little, with eyes watching them both, he spoke. "Strung out hooligan," John echoed, smiling at the term a little. Both ignored the comment. "Not so much anymore."

"The DI said the contact put him on the trail of a consignment shop, stolen goods or whatnot, tracked down the ... person based on your description, your description of the violin or something." Joe took a deep breath, his face a myriad of expressions, fleeting, settling on pleased. "You realised the violin was missing. It was you, you figured it out."

"He stole his violin," Sherlock said, quietly but with an offended vehemence, still perturbed at the injustice, the crime. His hands trembled, face pale, brow furrowed. "He stole ..." he repeated.

John rose quickly, his words coming softly and only for Sherlock. "You're all right, it's okay," and he moved to stand right in front of him, a hand coming to his face to take his attention, make him make eye contact. "You're better. You figured it out, told the right people." Sherlock's arms were even shaking a bit, shivering, and John pressed his hand again Sherlock's slightly stubbled cheek, centering him, focusing him. "Deep breath."

"Oh shut up," he whispered under his breath, eyes sliding closed. "I know that, and I am, and it's just wrong, okay?"

"I hear you. You can do this." John leaned in a bit closer, a few more words of encouragement, both hands warm, supportive, one on Sherlock's face, the other solidly on his arm.

"Oh god," Joe whispered. "So that's why you're here. A home therapist or something. A companion."

"Mostly, yes," John agreed keeping his voice soft as he kept most of his attention on Sherlock.

"Sherlock," Joe began, his voice cracking just a bit. "Please tell me what you remember. My uncle so loved music, and I can't tell you how relieved I am that he was still playing, sharing it..."

And so Sherlock began to speak, eventually setting his own violin into John's waiting hands to put it away, and taking a seat across from Joe there in the sitting room. The tale was short, but detailed. It was surprising, after all this time and from what John could tell, most of the time moderately under the influence of something or other, that Sherlock could still recall such things as what he was wearing, his observations about how much he was eating. When he mentioned that Joe's uncle offered him food every time he came by, Joe could only laugh at that.

"That was just so like him. Destitute within an inch of his life, and still looking to share what he had. Hell, he would have given you the violin if he thought you'd wanted it."

"I'm sorry for what happened to him," Sherlock said quietly, taking a few moments to stare hard at John as he did, remembering what he'd been concerned about and being able to non-verbally share the relief with him. "It was just so unfair."

"He made his choices, I suppose. There was probably a mental health diagnosis. We'd lost touch, or I'd've...  Anyway, for all I know he found it his mission to share music with whoever he could, and if they could get an apple or a piece of bread if they were hungry, he probably felt that was his calling."

"He played an original piece quite a bit. After I heard it the first time, I kept requesting it, and after that, soon as he saw me, he'd do that one next."

"He tried to teach me a few things about composing when I was really little. I never paid too much attention to him. Crazy uncle, you know?" There was a wry smile, then, and Sherlock nodded. "Wish I'd paid attention."

"I know. I wish things ..." Sherlock said and then had to stop, his voice full of emotion, of compassion, and he was unable to finish the sentence but the intent was clear, given the expression on Joe's face.

After a moment, a few deep breaths, and Joe smiled again, a sad but relieved smile. "All because of that violin."

"The marks on the scroll were quite distinctive. And then yes, a chance meeting for us."

"Meant to be, I think." Joe smiled at John, "And then a safe introduction." Though Sherlock seemed more relaxed, John was still very attuned to his affect, seated across the room and hoping he was more casual than he felt.

"Something like that."

Joe was quiet, pleased, reflective. "I'm glad you said something tonight. It's so comforting to know he wasn't completely alone." A quick consult of the time from the clock on the wall. "God, I really have to run." He stood, finished packing up his violin, and Sherlock rose too, handed him the music from the stand that he'd left the previous time, that they'd used. "But I have to say thanks for being ... for befriending him. For all of that." His voice grew quieter, more serious. "For speaking up to the police. That must've taken quite a bit of courage, given you said you were living on the streets."

"With some challenges of my own, yes." Sherlock shoved his hands into his pockets. "I feel like I should tell you I ran from the police that night. They wanted information, more information, wanted to know how I knew about his violin. I never really thought they would ever follow up on that."

"Justice was done, thanks to you. And you seem like you're in a much better place now."

"He's doing amazing," John agreed when Sherlock kept his eyes down. "Working with the police now, a bit."

"Not working. Volunteering," Sherlock corrected.

"They're lucky to have you." Joe stood, reaching for his coat as he prepared to leave. "And so was my uncle."

++

"I'm proud of you."

"It was just a conversation."

"You were nervous about it."

"Hardly a big deal." Though Sherlock was continuing to try to downplay it, John had definitely seen those few breaths after Joe had left, where the tensions abated, the smile was softer, the set of his shoulders more normal. "Hardly."

"It was."  John shrugged. "I'm making tea. And I can see that you're relieved."

"Will you reward me for not pointing out that his technique had some flaws. And that he presents himself as a certified tutor when he's not. And that he was probably asked to leave a former position for misconduct ...?"

"Reward you? For having social skills and a bit of restraint? No."

John should have noticed the glimmer just this side of conniving except that he was filling the teakettle and his back was turned. "I'll have mine sweet, while I see about some of my ash samples," Sherlock mused as he shifted some things about, sitting down, sifting through some materials. He waited, biding his time.

John set the mug of tea carefully off to the side, and Sherlock muttered a thanks, and then held a glass dish up toward John. "Does this smell like limes or lemons to you?"

"Like lemons?" John said, inhaling a bit. "Yes, lemons."

With uncharacteristic clumsiness, Sherlock nudged at the table as John was leaning in. The slightest jiggle of Sherlock's arm and the shifting of the table knocked the dish enough that it slid from Sherlock's fingers, the liquid catching John about the collar and into his neck. "Sorry!" he breathed quickly. "It slipped," he said, righting the dish and standing up to grasp for a towel. "Might want to --"

"Uh, what is this?" John hissed as he pulled the shirt away from his neck, a little concerned at Sherlock's expression. "Acid?" Nothing was hurting or blistering at the moment, but John was alarmed.

"No, not exactly, but," Sherlock looked a bit chagrined - or guilty? - "you should get that off right away." His delivery, unfortunately, was a bit direct and his tone slightly too assertive, and it caught John's eye, who froze, glaring.

"Sherlock."

"No, really," he answered, but there was a different, less urgent delivery. In tandem, they moved to the sink, John pulling at buttons quickly and grabbing at the fabric to keep it off his skin. "Just in case, best be safe." Sherlock turned on the faucet at the sink, and wet the towel to hand over to John once the shirt had been removed and discarded onto the floor. "Did a lot get on you?"

For a brief moment, John pressed the towel to his neck, catching his breath from the shock of the sudden spillage and assessing for damage. "I don't think so. So what was that?" The wet shirt had certainly felt uncomfortable, but with the towel against him, there did not seem to be any lingering pain.

Nor, he realised, was there anything that seemed particularly toxic. Or flaming, ticking, or otherwise threatening them or the flat with imminent harm or destruction. Perhaps, John considered, a convenient excuse?

"Extract of citric acid and some antioxidants, probably with a lower pH ...  It might sting but shouldn't burn or blister." The small grimace on Sherlock's face was not all that convincing, and there was definitely an element of subversiveness John was sensing.

"Pick up my shirt please, and toss it in the sink?" John rinsed the towel again, wiping carefully along his neck and down where there was hardly even a faint red patch where the fluid had touched him, while Sherlock did indeed what John had asked, though he was watching John quite carefully. Unabashedly, in fact. "And don't you dare think for a second that you got away with anything here."

Sherlock stopped, faced John, blinking slowly while making an attempt at innocence. "What are you talking about?" 

John crossed his arms in front of him, the towel tossed over his shoulder, and he kept his face as stoic as he could despite the fact that Sherlock had been up to some shenanigans. "Pretty sure plain lemon juice isn't going to hurt anything."

"I have no idea --"

"Oh for god's sake, did you really think I wouldn't ...?"

Sherlock grinned then. "Harmless." His brow raised, mouth caught in the sideways, lopsided smirk. A triumphant - of sorts - smirk. "And you should have just done what I asked."

"I have always, _always_ hated being manipulated." John recalled the questionable too-quick agreement, the odd look on Sherlock's face earlier. "You really shouldn't have --"

"You're unreasonable."

"I'm unreasonable?" John repeated. "What part of this even remotely resembles something rational, reasonable, or a good idea?" He gestured at the shirt, which was in the sink, at where they were, at the spilled liquid.

"I also gave you the option to reward me for good behaviour, which you shot down immediately." Sherlock seemed to be almost feeling entitled to what he wanted.

"Sherlock," he began.

"I'm much easier to deal with when I get my way. This should not be a startling revelation."

"Sit down. We're going to have a little chat. Long overdue." John was well aware that the power dynamic was beginning to shift, the aura in the room slightly askew, the scale beginning to balance a bit, still shaking with indeterminate equilibrium.

A cheshire cat grin. "Of course. I'll sit here, you can sit anywhere you want." With a flair of confidence, he perched on the couch, ankle over a knee, arms spread wide. And just grinning, watching John, waiting, enjoying, and smirking.

"New ground rules. And planning for the next couple of weeks."

"New ground rules are going to include cigarette breaks."

"They most certainly are not." John stood in front of Sherlock then, annoyed and a bit concerned that smoking continued to come up in conversation. His arms slid to his hips, authoritative, but he was not unaware that Sherlock was enjoying, staring unabashedly, in no hurry to change anything.

"New ground rules are ..."

"... not yours to make." John bunched up the towel and tossed it to Sherlock. "So please excuse me while I find something to wear."

When John had returned, Sherlock had logged into his email, and was already thoroughly involved in a bit of research for something for Greg. Although John was certainly ready to discuss some important things, Sherlock managed to thwart him by asking about one of the cases he was just beginning to start on, something about traumatic injury from blunt object force, and the topic seemed less urgent for a span of time.

"You realise," John began later on, "that we still have --"

"Of course."

++

A large, flat package was waiting for them in the hallway one evening when they returned after a bit of research on a nearby location where something had tickled Sherlock's investigative leads. The package had apparently been delivered, addressed to Sherlock Holmes, and waited inside the entryway. Upon carrying it upstairs and unwrapping it, they both simply stared at the framed piece of art that had been gifted to Sherlock.

It was a simple, black walnut frame around a thin, pale blue mat. Inside the mat was a wrinkled, crinkled and torn piece of hand-drawn music. Staff, clef, notes and rests, slurs and pizzicato markings. It was titled simply My Opus. It had been signed, the signature slightly illegible. The hand-drawn notes had a few smudges, perhaps a water stain, a smeary fingerprint. But it was beautiful, vintage, and elegant in its form. It was written for violin, and under the key signature were the words, _with feeling_.

The accompanying card was from Joe, simply that some original music compositions had been found with his uncle's meager belongings, unfinished, and that Joe wanted Sherlock to have one of the works as a token of the family's gratitude and appreciation, something concrete to remember him by.

"God," John breathed after Sherlock had handed him the card to read. "That's very kind."

"I would have thought it a sad reminder. But I don't see it that way right now."

"I'm glad you spoke up about it." John's voice was soft, his eyes gentle when Sherlock looked over, intent, thinking. "Spoke to Joe when he was here, I mean."

"I am too. I guess I would always have wondered..."

John came to stand beside him, both of them looking at the really rough-looking, music composition. The whole presentation was almost breath-taking, a memento of something worthwhile. The personal connection made it _touching_. "You can do more than you think you can." His arm brushed against Sherlock's, and without much conscious decision, he let his hand come up to stroke then rest comfortably on Sherlock's middle back. Sherlock let the frame down, leaning it carefully against the desk, then turned into John's body so that they were angled together, facing each other. "You should feel quite proud of all of that."

"Right. Especially the running from the police part."

"Well, maybe not that. But the rest? Absolutely." John looked up at him as Sherlock looked down, and they were close enough that their breath intermingled, with Sherlock pressing up and against John's shoulder. What had started as bicep to shoulder became waist and hip to pelvis, and the heat rose, body awareness, chemistry, and desire.

"John," he breathed. "Please." Sherlock's head lowered just faintly, John's raised the smallest amount, their eyes flicking from eye to lip, jaw, the leaning and angling of bodies so aware of each other...

"God, no, we shouldn't." But their eyes were locked, desire in the sight, sound, smell, proximity, as solid between them as something real and visceral and tangible.

 _"Please."_ Sherlock's hand came up toward John's face, and John intercepted it, his fingers catching at Sherlock's before they touched, before they had the chance to be igniting desire and passion into something unstoppable.

The war within John Watson waged for all of a few seconds, and he could feel the draw, the pull, the attraction grow. He pressed his lips quickly, dry and firm, against Sherlock's, an arm coming to rest against Sherlock's chest - holding close or keeping away, neither of them could really tell at first - and then just as quickly, stepped away.

For a few moments, they continued to stare, a mutually charged time where both acknowledged the chemistry, the magnetism. "So," John said quietly, twice, because the first word seemed to stick on the way out, "let me know where you want the frame, the music hung."

Wall space was random, a few prints, but mostly open. Sherlock pointed, John found a nail, and together they agreed it was a nice addition. Once it was up, Sherlock retrieved his violin and stood in front of the artwork, picking through some of the composition, the notes, a few attempts at the piece Joe's uncle had written. He stood, his fingers moving, the bow in synchrony with his breathing at times, and the tune emerged a bit. "Not too much of what I recall him playing," Sherlock said with a small smile. "But it's a nice tribute to have this."

"I like it too."

When Sherlock looked over, he found John studying him and not the print initially, and John didn't rush, but did turn to look at the wall, very conscious of the direction of Sherlock's gaze.

++

The exchanges of completed or analysed files continued to happen. Most often it was Greg who came over for just a quick hand-off after he'd finished work, rarely they included it on an outing, an excuse to get Sherlock away from the constant studying and focusing, making the exchange a good reason to take a break. One day, an officer showed up one afternoon with a new set of files and to pick up whatever was ready. He introduced himself to John at the door, a big guy, stocky, bright red hair under his patrolman cap, and came inside, gear, radio, belt all jingling and creaking as he moved.

Sherlock stiffened at his arrival, the air in the flat almost immediately stressful and uncomfortable. John's radar was instantly alert, and he glanced at the laptop, at the open folder. Nothing seemed amiss there. But Sherlock? Definitely something off there, something bothering him.

"You okay?" he asked, quietly, and Sherlock simply kept quiet, wary.

John watched, as the officer crossed the room to where Sherlock was still seated, his body language growing tighter, head down. "I'm McEwan. Worked one of those cases where you ended up proving the perp's guilt." When Sherlock didn't answer, he continued, "So anyway, DI Lestrade sent me with this, and to pick something up?" He was holding a small messenger bag. "I hear you've been really digging up some hidden details. Missed stuff, whole department is trying to step up their game."

It became suddenly apparent to John then, what the problem might be. He recalled Sherlock's experiences in France, being stuffed into a police car, presumably roughed up a bit, some of those memories indistinct but still troublesome. He though perhaps it might be the uniform? He stood then, moving quickly to come stand behind Sherlock, placed a hand on his shoulder. Very minutely, he could feel Sherlock lean into him. 

_Stay close._

_I will._

"These the finished ones, then?" and John agreed that they were. "Well, I guess I'll be going. Sure would be nice to hear what your secret is, how you do it."

A quick eye contact from Sherlock to John went unnoticed by the officer, and John could almost sense that he was looking to be rescued. "Oh, it's no trick, no secret," John began, picking up the completed ones to hand to the officer as he began to herd him toward the door. "He observes."

The patrolman glanced one to the other, patted the files now in his hands, "Observe, is all? You make it seem easy, makes the rest of us wondering how we miss stuff is all."

John made sure to keep between Sherlock and the officer, to stay closer to Sherlock than McEwan was, as he stepped through the room, still chatting about the process and one of the other cases that was still unsolved. They could both hear his muttering as he descended the steps, left the building.

The click of the door seemed more echo-ey than usual, and John watched Sherlock for signs of continuing distress. Finally, John broke the silence. "You okay?"

A single nod.

"You're sure."

"Headache."

"Well, that was interesting. Unexpected."

"Next time, Lestrade needs to come himself. Or you can make the trade at the kerb."

John lowered his hand to the back of Sherlock's neck, starting with a gentle touch. He keened into John's fingers, angling his head, encouraging. John let his hand brush into Sherlock's hair at the nape of his neck. Addressing Sherlock's statement, he smiled, and said, "You did pretty well there actually. We'll see about next time, yeah?"

Sherlock was already elbows deep in the next case, so when he didn't answer, John was more than all right with that. But he did have an idea.

++

**Can you help me with something? John Watson**

**That depends. I tend to avoid minor domestic disputes. What's he done to you now? Greg**

**You wear a uniform sometimes yeah? JW**

**I do from time to time. GL**

**Would you please wear it next time you come to exchange case files?**

**I am not, under any circumstance, doing a singing telegram. Or anything that requires background music, dancing, or delivering flowers.**

**Uh, no...?**

**You don't want me to read him his rights and slap cuffs on him?**

**God no. Absolutely not.**

******So, uniform, yes. Later this week probably. All right?**

 **Yes, that sounds good. And actually, when you come,** **I would suggest keeping your distance a bit first.**

**Should I ask?**

John hedged just a bit, feeling just as protective as he had when the uniformed officer had been in the flat.  **He seemed a little nervous when your officer was here. Thought perhaps a friendly face in a uniform would be good for him.**

**You want me in uniform. And to be nice.**

**Bad associations with the uniform, apparently. So yes, nice.**

**Oh, I see.**   **I can be nice. Unless he gets really out of hand, we'll be fine.**

**Give me a heads up before, if you can. And thanks.**

++

"Sherlock?"

Breakfast had long been cleared and Sherlock had a file open, along with multiple tabs on the computer, a few papers strewn about, and post-it notes in various spots on the wall. "I need better information here. Another prime example of why they need to get better evidence. Or let me obtain it before they botch it, ruin it, or just bloody miss it." He ranted a few moments, and finally settled again. "What did you want, because this is important. I think you should stop interrupting me for ridiculous reasons."

"Ridiculous reasons like ..." John sighed. "Never mind, give me your mobile."

Sherlock narrowed an eye. "You're not going to password protect it, or restrict it, or otherwise ...?"

John was already shaking his head. "No, nothing like that."

"No changing my ring tones." Sherlock'd set Mycroft's incoming text tone from the thunder and lightning from before to the sound of a diving submarine alarm, and took particular delight in provoking him to respond by text, until Mycroft figured it out. There had been radio silence for quite a few days since that.

John couldn't help chuckling, then explained. "I'm installing an app that might help you get nagged fewer times to eat."

"I'm trading your live nagging for the app nagging me?" Sherlock produced the mobile, held it out. "Fine by me. Not going to work anyway."

"I think it's worth a try."

"You're more fun to ignore, but I can ignore an app too." So with a bored sigh, Sherlock handed it over, already seeming to be much more interested in one of the details at hand. A few clicks, and John installed a new app on the device, one he'd been researching that gives simple, subtle cues as a reminder to eat. At preset times, there would be a photo along with a choice of soft tones or a snippet from a song, and it was supposed to help those who struggled with appetite to keep a regular schedule with gentle, encouraging reminders. John had already installed it on his own as well, on silent, so that he could at least be aware. 

It chimed for the first time a short while later, and John brought a plate to Sherlock, set it down, no words exchanged. A short time later, the plate was at least partially empty.

At dinner, same thing. "Good stopping point?" John asked.

From the chair, Sherlock arched his back, arms raised up over his head, stretching and leaning. A stripe of skin was visible over Sherlock's belt until he straightened again. "I suppose." They ordered take away, walked down to get it, and enjoyed a meal in front of the telly.

The first few days, he waited until the alarm flashed, and then brought Sherlock a small portion of something to eat. Most often he did actually comply, nibbled on something. One day near lunchtime, John made sure they were out for a walk during one of the reminders, and when it flashed, he simply, wordlessly handed over a granola bar, which Sherlock opened, ate as they were walking, almost off-handedly as if he wasn't paying it too much attention.

Over the next couple of meals, it would chime, John would supply something, and Sherlock seemed not to notice as meals became less of a focus. Definitely less nagging.

The installation was a home run, John knew, when it chimed one day at lunch. John stayed seated where he was, pretending to be engrossed in something, and did not bring Sherlock anything edible. Within the minute, Sherlock looked up, and seemed to be waiting for John to get him a snack from the kitchen; he seemed a little unsettled at first, then stood up himself, went into the kitchen, and brought back a small plate of crackers, cheese, and fruit that John had ready to go in the refrigerator.

He resumed his research, though he huffed a bit as he sat back down, and John, still pretending to be engrossed in his own reading, worked hard to hide his smile of success.

++ 

"I think today's a day for a holiday from work."

Sherlock gave him an incredulous look.

"It's okay. I was thinking we'd take in a museum or something?"

"Something involving crime?"

"I'd prefer maybe a zoo or a film, and Mycroft said you'd already been to the Docklands."

"Yes, boring."

"Interested in the Black Museum?"

"No. Touristy."

"How about the backstage tour?"

Sherlock sat upright, eyes wide, serious. "No such thing," he challenged, chin out in a dare.

"Actually there is." John stood, pleased that even though Sherlock didn't seem interested, he was intrigued. "I figured you're not much for standing and behaving with a group of ..."

"Idiots. A group of idiots."

"I was going to say people."

"Everyone's an idiot."

"Thanks."

"You're less of one than most."

"Gee," John was chuckling. "Anyway. I have reservations for us for the behind the scenes tour, just the two of us with the curator." Pause. "If you're interested."

"I could be persuaded." There was a gleam, a zest, in Sherlock's eyes that gave John the fleeting thought that putting that liveliness there was fun. And something to seek after, just to see it there, to have brought him something that pleased him.

"Mycroft said I should remind you that you will be monitored on CCTV the whole time and that you're not to steal anything."

++

Mycroft had swung in, at John's request, just for a quick update. Mrs. Hudson had baked, which gave Sherlock something to pick at his brother about. So when Mycroft decided he'd had "quite enough of that, brother," and John had followed Mycroft out to run his idea past him and ask his opinion. "John, I must caution you..." Mycroft's serious tone had been punctuated by the tap of his umbrella against the floor of the entryway. "He has been thrown out of more places..."

"What, when he was twelve? Seriously has anyone made an effort, done anything he likes since then?"

"Well, of course, he had music lessons and went to uni --" Mycroft trailed off, realising that perhaps John was right. "Oh."

"Make the phone call. I'll get him there and keep an eye on him."

"Tell him I will be watching."

"That's ridiculous."

"I supposed I should tell you the story of when he was eight and stole one of the exhibits from the London Crime Museum?"

"Uh, no." John had very little trouble imagining that or believing it. "Fortunately, he's no longer eight."

"He's much sneakier, now."

"An entire exhibit, sounds unlikely."

"I'm pretty sure, to this day, he's on a list there to be denied admittance." He elaborated a bit, describing a school field trip upon which the tour guide had commented on security measures and joked about someone thinking they could possibly do something like that and get away with it. Mycroft issued a dry chuckle, then said, "So, no one even realised until he had this display of knives in his room. He stole one at a time over the course of a couple of days, just to prove that they were all --"

"Idiots," John finished for him.

"Indeed."

"Well, apparently they were," John suggested. "I'll take care of it. And we'll try to keep the thievery to a minimum."

From inside the flat came a crash, something falling over. Both John and Mycroft met eyes, both concerned. "Perhaps," Mycroft began, "you should also to minimise breakage, yeah?"

"Oops," they could hear Sherlock say quietly and then what sounded like a large container of marbles spill and begin rolling across the floor. It sounded like a herd of angry, metal elephants. John didn't think they even had were any marbles in the flat. 

"I shall make the call, see what I can do. Hopefully they'll have forgotten..."

More noise, both of them looking up at the ceiling as if they could figure out what Sherlock was doing. "I should probably go see ..." John began.

"Indeed."

++

"As if being monitored would stop me." Sherlock almost seemed thrilled at the idea of a challenge, John, Mycroft, CCTV, any of it.

"I monitor you, at least in theory, and you're doing pretty well."

"Because I'm choosing."

"You're choosing well." John shrugged. "You still have ... a stash here, probably more than one, and you've been avoiding it."

"Is that what you think?"

"I know there's still stuff here, you all but told me." John spoke matter of factly. "You're keeping your mind busy, you have been much less bored of late."

"This discussion is boring."

"Focus here, Sherlock. Plus, you've been productive, which is definitely helping."

Sherlock sat a moment, watching John with a wary eye. "I've been thinking about something." He rose quickly, there was rustling out in the kitchen out of John's line of sight, and then he was back. There was a small clear pouch containing a spoon, a smaller folded paper with something clearly wrapped inside, a tourniquet, all jumbled together. "Can you hang on to this for me?"

"Hang onto. Do you mean dispose of? Because that's what is going to happen if you give them over to me." In his mind, he was already deciding on a secure place to keep it until he could courier it over to a local surgery or hospital even for disposal, both of which had measures.

"Wasteful."

"Illegal."

"Dispose, then." Sherlock still looked a bit skeptical. "If you must."

"Why are you giving these to me?" John asked the question slowly, carefully, wanting to convey the need for Sherlock to weigh his answer, consider his motive.

A solemn stare, a quiet settled nature. "I made a decision, I suppose." Sherlock looked him in the eye until it grew mildly uncomfortable. He fidgeted, looked away. "Maybe I should make a few calls, see if, you know, someone might be able to enjoy --"

"No."

"Wasteful." But even as he said it, he let go of the items into John's hand.

"Thank you." John was only mildly surprised at the gesture. "I am quite aware, you realise, that there are still probably a collection of various substances here. Still here."

"Of course." Sherlock didn't deny it. "Well hidden."

"Leave them that way." 

A small frown appeared, and Sherlock had a small smile. "I'm trying."

"Or let me get rid of temptation."

"I feel stronger, knowing that I could, and am choosing not to."

"When you're thinking rationally, that is."

"I'm always rational."

"No, actually --"

"I'm fine."

"I know you're doing well. And this," he indicated the paraphernalia, "is a good start. One I hope you will continue."

For a moment, John thought Sherlock was going to say something profound about his newfound desire to stay clean and sober. "So, Black Museum?"

 ++

They had just returned back from a rather short but meaningful and intense couple of hours with the museum curator. He had more crime stats and trivia about how the museum started - prisoner's property - and all the different locations - it had started in Scotland yard until being moved to the Museum of London. The behind the scenes tour was only for the elite or well connected, apparently, and by special appointment or dispensation only. The museum manager, when John had made contact, had given them both a head-to-toe once over, his brow raised as if he was wanting to know how they were there in the first place or who they knew. John watched Sherlock grin enigmatically, as if he had the biggest secret in the world, and then the curator was summoned and the tour commenced.

The few hours passed quickly, and it didn't take long for their guide to realise that Sherlock was already very learned about crime in general. More than a few minutes were designated to debating the destruction of the museum in the London Blitz in 1940 and 1941, and John let his mind wander a bit while keeping a watchful eye on Sherlock. They were just wrapping it up when a text arrived from Greg Lestrade.

**Something to discuss with you. Will you both be home after dinner tonight? GL**

**Yes. JW**

**I'll be in uniform if that's still okay.**

**Is the discussion going to be upsetting in any way?**

**No. Not at all. Good news.**

**Uniform is probably fine, then.** **Thanks for the heads up.**

**See you later.**

John took a steadying breath, hoping that Greg was intimating at what John had been hoping for. Employment in a more official capacity.

++

The knock at the door then, later, was not unexpected, and John had made a few efforts to keep Sherlock on an even keel, rested, focused, and in good spirits. They'd had dinner in front of the telly, where Sherlock had, with alarming energy, ranted and raved about a few of the more colourful contestants on Britain's Got Talent.

"Must be Greg." John said, already rising. "I got it."

"Good," he said and curled himself into a slumping corner on the couch, his legs folded around him as he lowered the volume just a bit. "It's about time. These last cases are going nowhere and I want something fresh."

With a glance at Sherlock's bizarre position on the couch, head hanging off and knees tucked into the cushion, John opened the door. As expected, Greg was indeed fully badged and in gear. "Hey, come on in."

A small degree of reserved behaviour, more cautious than usual, Greg took a few steps inside. In his hands were a small smattering of folders. "Thanks." He stood carefully by the door as Sherlock took notice. A gradual unfolding of the tall man's terrible posture resulted in a mostly upright, seated, dark-headed person of concern, eyes wide, face serious. "Sherlock." No response. "Brought you some more work. All right if I come in?"

Had Sherlock been less surprised, he would have fussed that Greg already was _in_. There was a slow nod, and both John and Greg were watching Sherlock's demeanor, his tension.

He set the files down on the coffee table, keeping an eye on the stress level, and leaned on one of the chairs fairly far away from Sherlock but still in front of the telly. "Oh, didn't realise this was on tonight." He and John exchanged another worried look. "How's this one been so far?"

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally, and as he turned his attention back to the tv, he swallowed hard, took a few deep breaths, visibly lowered his shoulders as he sat.

Socially, John kept it light. "Get you something to drink? There's no beer, but..."

"Just water, mate, ta. I'm on my way home."

John brought it to him, along with a glass for him and Sherlock as well, then sat down next to Sherlock, between them. His presence on the couch seemed to do much toward unraveling the knot in Sherlock's body. "You're okay," he said low.

"I know." Though Sherlock seemed a bit more settled, he cast a quick glare in John's direction. When John offered him the beverage, Sherlock simply shook his head slightly.

There was a small public interest segment on the show, that none of them were particularly interested in, so Greg started off telling them a couple brief but amusing stories from the day, the mundane and the ridiculous and a few in between. He told a good story, and Sherlock seemed to get progressively better, less reserved, more composed, as time passed.

In the lull of their conversation, Greg looked at John, with a questioning look. John knew he was wondering about the timing, of having some sort of discussion. Rather than try to figure it out, John set a hand on Sherlock's leg. "You doing okay? You know, with ...?" His question was quiet, subtle.

A few blinks, and he seemed to consider it. "I think so." This was followed by a big breath, a deliberate exhale. "Surprisingly. Yes." And he did seem fairly at ease. His answer was quiet, casual, a little sidebar.

A half shrug, and John looked back at Greg, who started to speak in Sherlock's direction. "I have to tell you," and he paused, brow furrowed, glancing at John with misgivings.

"Out with it," Sherlock finally spoke, partially out of nerves. "For god's sake."

"I got permission just this morning to consider bringing you on officially, part time, as needed, as a consultant."

"This morning, and you're just talking to me now?"

"Sherlock," John tried to soothe, and in part, a warning. In the instant gratification that Sherlock lived in, it should have been no surprise that waiting a few hours would be considered an unacceptable delay.

"If you're interested."

"Of course I am, and it's about bloody time," Sherlock said, his voice low but animated. "You desperately need me to come along on some of these as they're being investigated. Right at the start."

Greg brushed a hand over his face, shaking his head. "Already, you're whinging about something."

"It's unacceptable, the level of investigation --"

"Can we just take one thing at a time here?" Greg grinned at John, who was also smiling broadly, and both of them seemed to be mock-surprised at Sherlock's response. "And to think, I might have expected a thank you."

John chuckled in response, held out his glass to touch the edge of Greg's that was extended. "Off your rocker, mate. What were you thinking?"

Sherlock was not to be outdone. "Your investigators are incompetent. Inconsistent. Bringing me on a case from the beginning would be the best thing your department has ever done."

"I had to go out on a limb just to be able to do this, mind, to pay you, consulting office work, not field work or live investigations. One thing at a time, yeah?"

"But you'll think about it?"

"I have a hard time imagining you at a crime scene. Insulting people, yelling --"

"Solving it. And keeping your band of idiots from --"

"You realise, if later on, down the road, it ever happens, you'll have to be professional."

"You won't be paying me to be tactful, or professional," and John could not completely stifle the cough of disbelief, "or to coddle anyone. It will be to solve crimes, to see things, to be wise and timely and _brilliant_ about investigating when you're out of your league."

"If I bring you on, yes, actually I can and would expect you to be professional. So yes, that is what I'd be paying you for. I don't hire amateurs."

"We'll see. I'm not promising anything."

"Even in this capacity, investigating, you are still going to have to toe the line, follow the rules, and do what I say." Greg leaned forward a bit, and John could feel his own anxiety raise a bit as he watched Sherlock for any defensive behaviour. There wasn't any. "That goes for anything, once you work for me, for the department, and you have an obligation --"

"That's ridiculous."

"Tough. Those are the conditions." A head-to-head discussion, Greg staring intently at Sherlock, who was staring just as evenly back.

"I'll have John to help me."

"Wait a minute," John began, "I'm not --"

Greg smiled again, nodded, a brow raised. "John is not your keeper. Not your minder. He is not ultimately responsible for your behaviour. _You are_." Sherlock nearly spluttered a bit at that, and as he opened his mouth, Greg lifted a hand. "No discussion. These are the rules. And if you want this bad enough, you'll agree." He mentioned the need for a formal job description, but that he'd started a draft, handed over an envelope. Greg polished off his water, pushed to his feet. "Let me know if you want to come in for an interview."

"An _interview_?"

"Oh yes, part of the deal. You'll meet with me and a couple others, some of my staff."

"Your staff of idiots."

"Sherlock," John said again, a low warning.

Greg glanced again at John as Sherlock began to talk.

"Why do I have to interview? Haven't I already proven --"

"Look," Greg said, holding up a cautious hand. "It's how things are done. It's mostly a technicality, a formality, but needs to be done anyway. Look over the papers, come in for a quick meeting. Bring some questions if you have any, we'll talk about the job description." Standing, he nodded to them both. "Let me know what you decide. And what your availability might be, and I'll set something up."

Sherlock seemed ready to answer immediately, probably to complain again, and John halted him. "We should talk about it, read over the papers. Yeah?"

"I don't see the point."

"Greg asked you to think about it."

"I already --"

"I'm asking you to think about it too." John stood to see Greg out, held on to the door as Greg turned back to the room. John hoped Sherlock could see that this was a big opportunity. "It's important for all of us."

"You've come too far to take this lightly," Greg said quietly. "So give it some thought." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Malingering: Verb. Exaggerate or feign illness in order to escape duty or work.
> 
> A/N: I accuse this piece of _malingering._ It is beginning to overstay its welcome and all of my attempts to get it to wind down, resolve, and get this pairing where they can let things develop. I desperately wanted this chapter to end somewhere further along in the story, but it's getting posted. 
> 
> This is one of those necessary chapters to move the plot along, and let me assure you, more is coming!
> 
> There are actual smartphone apps with eating reminders (medication or calendar reminders, activity trackers, etc).
> 
> ++
> 
> Please let me know nicely if something snuck by me, a typo, something unclear. Next chapter, John has scheduled a meeting with Mycroft, and Sherlock has some adventures with Greg.


	18. Precipitous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's doing well. Really, really well. John has been working hard, helping, and figuring out when to back off and when to push.  
> __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __  
> John has been hired by Mycroft to help Sherlock through a rocky road of detox, rehab, and recovery. There have been interesting connections to a homeless musician (and the violin that he played), Greg Lestrade (who crossed paths several times with Sherlock), and with some revelations from Sherlock's past.
> 
> And John has his own demons, doesn't he?
> 
> They are quite interested in each other, so there's a bit of flirting, innuendo, and Sherlock outright asking for it. John's ethical standards, though, are quite high and he is still trying to resist.
> 
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the end of the last chapter, Sherlock had been reviewing some of Greg's old case files, at John's suggestion.  
> Greg had finally been given the green light to hire Sherlock as a part time consultant. Sherlock was rather incensed that he had to actually interview for the position he already was doing.

John emerged from the shower, freshly dressed, hair still damp, feeling rested and ready for whatever Sherlock had in store for him. Said subject of speculation was sprawled across the couch, head hanging down, one long leg and bare foot sticking straight up and resting against the wall. "Hold that position too long, you'll get a headache." Sherlock opened one eye to look inquisitively at John. "Inversion can aggravate venous engorgement. Dizziness, pounding, headaches."

"Already have one." The headaches Sherlock still got were fewer in number, and less in severity, just lingering signs of the detoxification process. John had to reassure him, more than once, that they would eventually dissipate, though it could take a few more weeks yet. Cocaine in particular, John had told him, can have an extinction period that included moodiness and depression (which included the headaches) that could linger for several months. The crash period and acute withdrawal he had certainly passed through, though he did confess to continuing cravings from time to time.

"You call Greg?"

"I should not have to actually interview for this. I'm already doing the bloody job."

"It's a formality, was what he said. Go talk to them. Ask some questions of your own."

"Oh," Sherlock launched right away and he sat up suddenly into a more human position, "I intend to, about their inferior techniques and how they manage to miss evidence and contaminate --"

"Stop." John had tried to hold up a hand to get him to do so. "Have you ever actually held a job, interviewed for anything?"

"Of course not. Mycroft's connections, mostly."

"Okay, so here's the deal. This is your chance to prove you can follow directions and at least be civil."

"Why would I need to do that? They're hiring me to pick up their slack. If they're idiots, it's not my fault."

"Please try not to get yourself fired before you even start. Call Greg, set something up, and we'll talk some more."

That afternoon, Sherlock and John walked into the police department. For all Sherlock's bravado before, the sight of the cars out front, the uniforms in the building, even the signage somewhat intimidating, he was somewhat subdued, which John thought a good development.

He took Sherlock's coat, and proceeded to take a chair along one wall of the main room near Greg's office. "What are you doing?"

"This is your interview. Not mine."

"You're coming."

"You can't possibly have expected that to happen. Your interview. I'll be right here."

It almost looked as if Sherlock was debating taking this to Custer's last stand. But after a moment, he stood tall(er), squared his shoulders, turned on his heel with an arrogant dismissal of John, and entered Greg's office.. From John's vantage point, he could see the back of Sherlock's head and most of Greg's face. Two other detectives and one administrative assistant joined in behind the closed door. It was not a long interview, maybe fifteen minutes. During that time, John counted three times Greg seemed shocked speechless, four times he ran his hand across his face as if trying to steel his expression, and seven times he sipped his coffee while blinking rapidly trying to get his bearings apparently. Best John could tell, though, there was no yelling, and if there were insults traded, it did not end in anyone being thrown out of Greg's office, being asked to leave, or dissolving in tears.

Sherlock emerged, radiating with energy, hands kind of restless and fidgety. "God, I need a cigarette."

"No you don't."

"I want one then."

"So handle it."

"Fine." He took his coat back from John, an arm sliding in, a toss of his head. "Tesco, we'll buy a pack."

"No."

Sherlock stalked off, through the lobby and out of the building, leaving John to follow, still holding Sherlock's coat. "I can't do this without some outside assistance."

"Sure you can." John caught up quickly, nodded. "The cigarette craving is a crutch. You have a patch on today?"

A sleeve rode up to reveal not one but two patches.

"You realise ..."

"Of course I do. I needed it." He yanked his sleeve down, took his coat back from John, and thrust his arms in as if that would deny John access to the patches in case he wanted to rip one off. While John'd done that once before, he wasn't planning on it this time.

"Stop that line of thinking right there. You don't." Taking Sherlock's arm, he steered them sort of in the direction of Baker Street, still entirely too far to walk, but both of them knowing that burning off the energy, the near-agitation, would be important. "Put words to why you're vibrating out of your skin." Sherlock crammed his hands in his coat pockets, the long coattails in a swirl, but he huffed and said nothing. "It looked to me that the interview went well. Did it?"

A curt nod.

"Did they offer you the job?"

"Greg said he'd be in touch." It was delivered with a tone that said _I've just committed unspeakable, unthinkable, positively nauseating, disgusting crimes against humanity, puppies, and nature_.

"Standard operating procedure. Interview-speak. It means just that, he'll call you."

"He's making me _wait_."

"Did he say when you would hear anything?"

"This evening or tomorrow."

"Are they interviewing anyone else?"

"No one else is qualified for this. The job description was written for me alone."

"So you don't know the answer to that."

"I suspect that he is not." A worried look shot from Sherlock to John as they kept step, up along the street. "Do you think he might be?"

John could have hugged him for revealing the rather sweet show of insecurity and resisted the urge to do so. "Of course he isn't."

A nod, still a bit of worry.

"So why are you so itchy?"

"Who does he think he is, making me wait?"

John worked hard at not laughing at Sherlock's ego-centricism, knowing him as well as he did, that he truly believed he was entitled. And perhaps, John thought, he actually was. This position, if he was offered and if he accepted, would be such a win-win for them all. "He'll be your boss. It's the way things are done."

"He's being a control freak. He's worse than _you_ are."

John had seen a handful of times where Sherlock was spoiling for a fight and deliberately goading at him, at his brother, or at random inanimate objects such as the wallpaper and various other household items. He made himself focus and not be distracted by Sherlock's antics. "You realise there are seldom offers on the spot. Seldom acceptances, either." There was a pursed moue of Sherlock's mouth that clearly indicated he didn't believe him. "Although, in your defense, Mycroft didn't offer me a job, you know. He hired me on the spot without really asking me, didn't even give me a choice. Took away my other clients, finished my current patient prematurely, and left me very little in the way of rebuttal to work with."

"I had no idea."

"I turned it down. Made him wait. Didn't sign the contract for a while." Sherlock didn't answer, simply kept walking, his stride long and determined. "Nice to see, by the way," John told him, "that you certainly seem to have all your strength back. A few weeks ago, you would already have been winded."

"Yes, well, I'm finding this is a good way to work off some aggravation." 

++

John clearly remembered working off aggravation.

"Dr. Watson."

There was a burning, a tearing, a shredding pain across his shoulder, the tape from the bandage stretching, pulling at skin as he worked within the confines of his limited range of motion. A rivulet of perspiration dripped from his temple, across tense cheeks, and over a clenched jaw before dripping onto the hospital issued patient gown. _Stretch. Rest. Stretch harder._

"Dr. Watson." The voice was more urgent, still ignored, muffled under the nearly unbearable thrumming in John's ears, blood pressure elevated, exertion, pain. A touch on his knee. " _John_ , please..." A gentle hand slid along his shoulder, along his quivering bicep.

"God, this hurts," John whispered, the inner count in his head of the exercise repetition, 8-9-10, the arm fasciculating, burning, muscles positively _screaming_. The inflammatory nature of injured muscle fibres left the whole area throbbing.

"Stop, before you re-injure yourself."

After ten, he halted, the accomplishment hollow, painful, overdone. The perspiration on his face, the quivering, trembling upper body in addition to the arm. The weight was taken from his hand by one of the physiotherapists, and an ice pack placed over the top of his shoulder. "I just want ..." _To heal. To move on. To turn back time. To awaken from this rehab hell. To forget._ He couldn't finish the sentence over the tightness, the swelling in his throat. Over the emotion that was so close to the surface.

The face of Ramin, of the gut-punched sensation when he found out the boy had been transferred away, of the sickening dread when his own name had appeared on the unit search team assignment, of the last hurrah of the mission gone sour, and then the gunshot, the injury, of his teammates dead... It all swam before his eyes, with his newly strained shoulder only the mildest distraction from his emotional pain.

The therapist pressed the ice into the sore, swollen area. "I know."

"I thought pushing would help."

"You know, overdoing it doesn't ease guilt."

Through his open mouth, John could feel the warm air puffing out, shaking in cadence with his chest as he exhaled. It was close to a sob.

The therapist leaned close and John closed his eyes, head tipped back against the wall. "Guilt is fucking dangerous here in physio. You're at risk to hurt yourself like this. And I won't let you ruin your recovery, John."

"I know."

"This happens too often, soldiers looking for an outlet for a whole shit-ton of reasons."

"I just can't --"

The therapist stood, adjusted the ice. "Twenty minutes here with the ice. Five hundred millilitres of water now for muscle healing, and again when you get back to your room. Finish your protein at dinner. I'm cutting your therapy tomorrow to only once. And only with me from now on." The therapist pointed a finger at John, conveying a serious accountability and that parental _I-mean-it-don't-mess-with-me stare_. "I'll not have you working out your aggression, your guilt, and harming yourself in the process. Understand, Captain?"

The tone, the delivery, the title, the seriousness of the statement caused John to open his eyes again, glance over to make eye contact. There was authoritative stance, a sharpness about the eye. He meant business. "Yes sir," John whispered. A water bottle appeared shortly at his side, and despite the queasy heaviness in his gut, he pulled at it until it was empty.

The monotony and work and aggravation and pushing not quite up to the limits of physical pain - safely this time - was the same for John the following day, with one exception.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Watson. I am Dr. David Leopold, the psychiatrist on staff. Your doctor has requested I consult with your case, to assist in your recovery. Our session today will be ... "

++

Sherlock did not remember many specific incidents of working off aggravation. People around him were sometimes subjected to it.

The buzzing on the nightstand from the platinum docking station flashed once, vibrated, flashed again. Mycroft's mobile software was set so that very little actually disturbed him in the bedroom.  Grade Three active situations, acts of war within a set number of kilometers of England's borders, and a few select staff contact numbers got through - but that was it. The screen flashed that of his PA, who knew exactly when and what to escalate.

"Yes." He half-sat up, leaning on an elbow, pressing the phone to his ear for a moment as he listened. "And he's been taken where?" An exhale through pursed lips. _Not again. Well, at least it wasn't the hospital this time._ "All right connect me to the sergeant on duty." A moments explanation, a stretch, an affirmative sound as he lay back onto his back, knowing he would have time, hours perhaps, before he would need to get up to handle this. Again. "And his behaviour now is what, you said, pacing, yelling, that sort of thing?" He rested back, closed his eyes. "That's fine. Tell him nothing. I will not be rushing over to collect him, that's right. Let him pace while he's under the influence. It'll last for several hours yet, I'm sure. I'm not going to bring all that energy, that ridiculous amount of drug-induced mania outside that cell until he's worn some of it off." He pulled the phone away from his ear as the speaker, disgruntled, grew louder and voiced his complaints and requests again. "Tell him nothing. Tell him you couldn't get a hold of me." There was more complaining. "I'll not be coming, you can rest assured, until he's exhausted. Right now, he's safe, he's not hurting himself, he's not a threat to anyone. Let him stomp about and climb the walls like a caged animal, it matters not to me." The lie was bitter as he spoke it, and he could easily picture Sherlock distraught, waiting for him, feeling abandoned, then getting angrier and more out of control as time passed in his altered state. The close confines of the prison cell, however big it was, would never be enough. In his memories of previous middle of the night notifications, he could still hear some of the calls, the moaning, the throat-raspy pleadings of his brother in the throes of his demons... _Subject closed, moving on,_ Mycroft decided. "I'll see you by lunchtime," he said dismissively and coldly, and disconnected. Another blow of a breath, biofeedback, slowing heart rate, vagal nerve stimulation, followed by a few more breaths. He was calmer, reminding himself that Sherlock would be all right, that he needed more intervention, more therapy, _more of whatever Mycroft could rally on his behalf._

Another push of a button, and his PA was back on the line. "If they call back and insist, try to hold them off. When day breaks, I'll need to meet with you and a few others, for starters, to see about getting Sherlock placed somewhere safe, where he can finish detoxification again."

++

"He's not going to call." They had ended up taking a bus back to Baker Street, where John was seated and Sherlock was pacing. Pacing north, pick at the curtains, fuss at the bookshelf. Pace south, worry a stray paint chip with a thumbnail, making a bigger hole in the exposed plaster. "He's not."

"He said this evening or tomorrow, yeah?" There was a scathing look, somewhere between 'I hate you' and 'you're an idiot.' John smirked, just a tad. "Last I checked, it's still this evening and we won't get to tomorrow for a few hours yet."

A swallow, a shrug, a restless rustling of papers, a fuss at his mobile, Sherlock was having a hard time waiting. "Ring my phone, make sure it's working."

"Your phone is fine."

"I should call him, maybe he forgot."

"No."

"I think I'm going to turn it down, anyway."

John knew Sherlock was just pushing buttons, looking for trouble, spoiling for an argument, traipsing for control. Though he wanted to smile at his antics, at least a little, he did not give him the reaction he wanted. "If that's what you've decided, that's fine."

"It's what he deserves. For making me wait." Sherlock seemed as if his agitation were escalating. John did not engage, did not react the way the comment was intended.

"No you won't." John did smile then knowing Sherlock needed some help navigating the lesson in patience. "Look, this is how it --"

"I should. I definitely should do that. 'Twould serve him right."

"Don't play that game. It's a dangerous game."

"I don't mind danger. And you, you _thrive_ on it." Sherlock sat down for somewhere under five seconds, then stood, moving about restlessly, the window, the hob, the telly, his desk, to the violin. His fingers found the case clip, snap open, snick shut, snap open, snick shut, snap open ...

"Stop that."

"I should call him."

"No you shouldn't. You both need each other, ultimately, and he'll call you." A sigh, a huff, a grating of the teeth. John knew this was hard on Sherlock and sought for some way to help him. "Come here." John indicated the end of the couch, where he gestured from behind. "I'll rub your shoulders, get rid of some of that tension."

"Won't help."

"Won't know until we try." Raising an eyebrow and angling his head again to where the couch was, just in front of John, he waited. "Come, sit." A sweeping gesture, a mock massage with his hands. "Touch can be very grounding, very settling."

"John."

"At least give it a try."

"Make me." One hand came to rest arrogantly, sassy, on Sherlock's hip.

"I could, you realise."

"They're just words, until you bloody do something about it." His chin came up again, feisty, focused, absolutely shaking, quivering with energy seeking a path of least resistance. _"Make me."_ There was a sparkle in Sherlock's eye, a wraggle of his eyebrow, a challenge in the grin. Something within John grew very, very interested.

John weighed his options, took a single step in Sherlock's direction. Almost immediately, Sherlock's pupils flared, his eyes wide and frozen on John, watching his head, eye direction, hands, stance, and center of gravity. For a brief moment, he seemed ready to flee, and John took another step laterally in the room, cutting off his escape angle, narrowing his options. "I'm trying to help you here. You could at least consider cooperating."

"Cooperation's boring."

"Because me chasing you around the room is a much more mature way to handle things." John had in fact, not started chasing, but he was certainly intimating that he might, that he was thinking about it, that he was bloody well prepared to do so.

"It's not boring anyway," and Sherlock launched himself quickly toward the kitchen table, thinking John wouldn't be expecting that.

But he was, and quick as a serpent after a mouse, John snatched out at Sherlock's wrist. A single lunge, a brisk tug, and they stood mere inches apart, breathing hard, eyes bright, the smell of testosterone, excitement and action in the air between them. The moment of bristling, of electricity, of anticipation could have lent itself a few different ways. The ideas, though, were abundant. John's eyes flicked to Sherlock's mouth - could have been quite kissable, definitely, a few rough, bite-y moments of lips, tongue, teeth right there would be ... well, a bit not good, but it was appealing none-the-less. And oh, he wanted to do it. And more than that, much more. His thoughts took wing, thinking ahead, more ideas charging through that figurative door he'd just barely cracked open. Of wrapping his arm about Sherlock's waist also held some merit and appeal, some consideration, to then draw him close, pressing muscle and body and hips together. A few presses and a well-placed wriggle would be quite revealing as to how interested they both were. Sherlock had no such inhibitions, no restraint, no boundaries and would in all likelihood not only allow the touches but encourage them - and press for more, demanding much more. So John's mind dabbled, considering options, what could have been, what could still be. Back in space and time, Sherlock brought up his free hand, pressed tight over John's ribs, reaching and sliding, hard, up around his pectoral muscle, finger and thumb strategically placed, coming together, leaning closer and pushing _hard_ around John's nipple. The firm touch, the press, the sensuality, the heat of the erogenous zone - Sherlock's hand, John's chest muscle.

 _"Oh god,_ " John heard, realised it was his own words, knew he was leveraging pressure, arching back against Sherlock's surprise fondling, yet it was firm, hard, insistent, and took his breath away. The kiss speculated about earlier neared reality, their heads angling to fit together, breathing deep, yearning, ready to burst into virtual flame. Lips ready, breathing shallow, bodies angling or preparing to do so, finding the anticipation, the yearning, the imminence oh-so desirous...

The interruption, when it came, an intervention, a cockblock, in most ways unwanted, and terribly frustrating. The insistent buzz of Sherlock's mobile. "That might be Greg," John stated quietly, his hand coming up over Sherlock's which was still squeezing, a delicious pressure of a particularly sensitive, sensual, heightened awareness area. Instead of pulling the hand off immediately, he pressed into it harder, firmer, arching his back and flattening his hand over the back of Sherlock's hand. "This is ...  _oh god_ , amazing, but you need to get that."

"Voicemail."

"No," John said, using that moment to pull away completely, mind first, then hands, bodies, all of it. "Answer your damn mobile." _Be the responsible one_ , Watson, _the adult here. A close call, to be sure._

"And then we can ...?

 _"Answer."_ Though they weren't touching, the heat was still consuming, still there, still threatening.

Sherlock glared, retrieved his phone from his pocket, touched the screen, raised the device. "Yes."

They were close enough for John to be able to hear easily. "Hi Sherlock, Greg Lestrade. Calling to make you a formal offer for ... "

++

The following day, John accompanied Sherlock to the NSY for a few minutes of signing some paperwork, picking up a case log template, a time sheet, and directions on picking up and returning his own files - location, procedure, sign-outs. As John had done during Sherlock's interview, he remained in the periphery, in the main lobby area, letting Sherlock manage his own business, his own affairs. Greg's office was across the larger room, a more central location, window in the wall, a glass door. After what seemed a short time, John found himself summoned by a sharp rap on the glass and a beckoning of Greg's index finger, to where Sherlock sat, arms crossed, looking very much a chastised toddler at first blush. At second glance, bothered and approaching  _upset._

John stood in the doorway, blinking, waiting for either of them to clue him in. In only a few seconds passing, Greg, sort of apologetically, tapped John on the arm as he stepped from the room, closing the door behind him.

"What's wrong?"

Silence.

"Sherlock?" He spoke kindly, wanting this to be successful, for Sherlock to manoeuver his surroundings, deal with the circumstance.

"There's a drug test as a condition of hire."

"Okay." John aimed for casual. "So. You knew that it was a possibility. Greg had mentioned it when you first started for him. They know you might have a few things that, depending on how long things linger and what they test for, might still light up on your screen. That's all above-board. That's manageable." Sherlock was still quiet, still obviously bothered. "Unless there's something you're not telling me?" Briefly, John had a flicker of concern that Sherlock had been sneaking substances that he shouldn't have been.

"No. But ..." he glanced up, face still flushed, nervous. "Something's not right. I'm ..."

John could seem from his vantage point Sherlock's quick breathing, sweating, his pallor under the ruddiness of his face. A frown crossed his brow as he could see the bounding of Sherlock's carotid artery. "Tell me what you're feeling."

"Bit light-headed. Like something awful is ready to happen. Tingly." A frown of consternation appeared. "I feel a little better now you're here." There was a flicker as Sherlock glanced quickly at John, then away again. Embarrassed?

 _Oh, Sherlock._ The smile crossed John's face before he could school it.

"That's really wonderful, your entertainment at my predicament. Compassionate, truly," he sneered lightly, breathing that last word, hunching down in the chair more, turning his body to face away from John. "Arsehole," came the almost silent whisper, not quite inaudible.

"No, no, nothing like that. I didn't mean --" Intentionally, he remained just inside the door, giving Sherlock both space and some independence as they spoke. "Check your pulse. I'm sure you know how, right?"

"Of course, I'm not an idiot." He reached for his own wrist while shooting the stink-eye at John.

"Neck'll be more accurate, carotid's easier to find." Sherlock did so, located it quickly, and within a few seconds glanced at John with alarm. "Yeah, it's fast. Too fast. So?" His mouth quivered a little, chewing his lip as he trembled, with constant fidgeting and shifting about. "I already told you, something's _wrong_."

"Calculate."

He hesitated, looking at the analog clock on Greg's office wall, and John could tell he was indeed counting. "What'd you get?" he asked, after fifteen seconds had elapsed.

"Forty, times four. One-sixty."

"Ever had a panic attack before?"

"God no. Is that ...?" Sherlock huffed in disappointment, his breathing remaining quick, deep, his entire carriage alight with nerves and physiologic responses. "I can't control...  What do I do with _this_?" He seemed defeated. "This is madness. Unacceptable."

"You're okay. I'll help you. Sit up straight," John said gently, waited for compliance. "Now, deep breath."

"Sod off." Sherlock had long been fussing about how so many of the strategies for dealing with cravings, stress, or anxiety seemed to start with breath control.

John thought briefly about it. "All right, have it your way," and he turned slightly, put his hand on the knob, and had opened the door before Sherlock finally stopped him. "You ready to listen now?" A nod. "Eyes on me." After a pause, Sherlock did as John asked, pale blue uncertain eyes seeking out and holding John's gaze. "Deep, slow breath, in through your nose. Good chest rise, shoulders up, ribs expand," he cued quickly and Sherlock kept pace with him, "feel it? Now exhale through your mouth, shoulders relax. Again, repeat a couple times, nice and slow, good. That's it, better."

"I can't control this, you know."

John remained where he'd been, knowing how important it was for Sherlock to own this, to manage, to navigate. "I think actually, you just did. You are. Pulse rate again." Sherlock held out his wrist in John's direction. "No, you check it. Though I can already tell it's better." John was nodding, watching the still rapid but better pulsations prominently visible in Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock went through the steps again, carotid artery, eyes on the clock. "One hundred. Still tingly."

"But it's better, improving." John reassured him, casually. "Sense of impending doom?"

"Foreboding, yes." He shifted again, the tension in the room awkward. "Waiting for disaster."

"Why? Name your fear."

"I have no idea."

"Try."

"Drug testing."

 _I'm not sure it is,_ John thought. "Afraid of the results, what they'll find?"

"No." Sherlock frowned again. "He explained the timing. And then all he said was, there's a walk-in clinic right down the road, I should stop there after leaving here."

"So what's your fear?"

A small set of his jaw, and John wished he was privy to the inner workings of Sherlock's mind and thoughts. Something had occurred to him, John could tell the moment he realised it.

"It's okay, you can tell me if you want. When you're ready."

"This time, no problem, really. It's not _this_ time I'm ..."  Annoyed, he seemed to clench his jaw, changed the subject, taking a roundabout way to get to the point. "New hires, screened again in three to six months. Next time, it'll be just me. The association, just thinking about it, doing it on my _own_." A shaky breath. "I have chills, skin, my chest ..." In the chair, he leaned forward, elbows on knees and face in his hands. "Next time. I'm not even ...  This is never going to get better."

"You realise we can meet periodically after, and if you want - or if you need - I could meet you, we could still do this together."

"You haven't left me to do that for someone else, some previous patient."

He was right, but John smiled reassuringly. "Molly came over a few times, remember? And I certainly could have had Mycroft there had I needed." A small part of John knew this was all part of how they would transition from what they had now to where Sherlock needed to be. "So don't worry about that. For you, right now, please don't borrow problems of your future. Let's get through today, make a few plans so you won't worry needlessly. One day at a time."

"I hate that phrase."

"I hated it too, every time it was said to me in the hospital. Every stinking time. But I've come to realise it's a pretty accurate thing to remember."

"Okay. Today, I stop at the clinic." He frowned again, let out a small breath of air. "Even saying it that way, heart is pounding again."

"We stop at the clinic then. _We._ "

"I hate this."

John saw a glimmer of hope in that very statement. "Why? Why do you hate this?" Had he wanted to aggravate Sherlock, he would have asked him to unpack that thought. He didn't.

"I'm weak. It's unacceptable."

At that utterance, that acknowledgement, John crossed quickly to stand in front of Sherlock, grasped his hand, hauled him to his feet. "Maybe in just that way, just a little, in that area alone. I'm not going to argue that. Nobody's got it all together all of the time. It's okay to need help from time to time. But look how far you've come. Look at how very strong you are in so many other areas." His hands stayed on Sherlock's arms, holding, connected, conveying an urgency. "Sometimes, the best thing to come of realising you might have some things to work on is knowing when to reach out for a little help."

The eyes that found John's then, the pale, blue eyes, seemed much younger than Sherlock's age. They had the pleading, the innocence, the vulnerability of a much younger child. "You might be available?"

"For you, Sherlock, I would try, as much and as often as you need me." _If I can._

He nodded, his smile actually quite grateful and timid. "Greg'll be back any minute."

"All right." John shrugged. "You can do this."

"I suppose."

"And then, the clinic. Apparently it's just a urine drug screen this time." He stood up, serious eyes seeking out John's gaze. There was a long, slow, worried exhale. "This is a one-off?"

"I think so," John said, knowing Sherlock would be worrying about the future, about not being able to trust his emotions. "It's good that this happened, you talked about it, worked through it."

"You think, because I don't want to do this..."

"It's not patterned behaviour." John shrugged again, hoping to convey exactly what he thought, that the tension and emotion in the setting he'd been in - uncomfortable, a new situation - just set him up for this today, and that it wasn't likely to happen again. He explained this to Sherlock, who listened, nodded. "So I don't see it coming back 'round often, if ever, again."

The exhale was more heartfelt, more complete, a half-hour or so later after a somewhat tense but successful - mostly independent, John coaching quietly from time to time - visit to the clinic. "You did it," John affirmed when they'd let the clinic door shut behind them. "You did it," he echoed, the sentiment quieter, heartfelt, proud.

Wordless for a few minutes, they fell into step, headed toward the tube station. While waiting, Sherlock stood, arms tucked into pockets, finally able to stand with a degree of confidence, made eye contact with John, who gazed steadily back at him. The smile that followed, eye crinkles, mouth relaxed, was warm and satisfied.

"So now what? What next?" John asked, mostly curious even as he knew primarily what the plan was.

"Same things I've been doing. Investigating. Setting things on fire when I get time." His ash studies were coming along, and he was documenting his findings with meticulous care now, using the microscope and some online searching to augment his findings. "Only difference, collecting a cheque now."

"Interested in letting your brother know? Seems might be a good idea to tell --"

 _Pfft,_ Sherlock breathed, his lips pursed, his good-natured smirk back. "Not interested even a little."

"Celebrate, a bit, share the good news."

"It's none of his concern."

"Gloat, perhaps then."

"In comparison to what he does, in his book, this wouldn't even be worthy of mentioning."

John wasn't so sure about that, though he knew he viewed Sherlock with kind, impressed vision it was still a novel, unique, custom-made job. He was ready to protest when Sherlock held up a hand that called for silence.

"Please. He already knows. And I don't want to give him the opportunity to say anything about it."

John nodded, thinking that Mycroft most certainly did know. And had probably already been in contact with Greg about it.

++

He had. Greg had run a late night errand, stopped for coffee and pastry on his way home from the office, and had just pocketed his change, sipped the hot beverage as he slid into a booth to enjoy at least a few minutes of relative peace away from his desk before calling it a day.

A tall stranger slid into the booth across from him. There was a smattering of brown hair, an aristocratic nose, and cool, calculating pale blue eyes.

"Can I help you?" Greg asked. He was hesitant, stoic, low key for the moment, but alert and watchful.

"I believe you can." Greg did not verbally answer, simply made a passing gesture with his hand, as if beckoning _continue._  "Dr. Watson has been working with a young man, someone you have an interest in, someone whose skills could be beneficial to you."

"I don't believe I caught your name." Greg had full stop no inclination to engage with this stranger across from him other than minimal politeness.

Smirk, eye crinkle, pale blue eyes serious and steady. "It could be beneficial for you to bring him on, consulting work, minimal salary." Greg kept his face completely neutral, and maintained his silence hoping for more information to work with, before he continued _not saying anything_. "He's quite gifted, and could assist you when your department needs."

"I don't believe that's any business of yours."

"It could be. I'm quite concerned," and a faint frown furrowed the stranger's face. "Moreover, it could be beneficial to you personally, if you were to consider taking him on, keeping an eye on him for me. I could make it quite worth your while." A business card was slid across the table. There was a generic company name, company number, and no personal identification or name. "My private number. All quite discreet, you see, if you're interested. Compensation," he pressed, "just so we're clear."

"I'm not."

"You should be aware that he comes with certain ... shall we say  ... _risks_?"

Rather than remind this stranger that this topic remained none of his business, Greg stood. He slid the business card back across the table. "I think we're quite done here."

Greg's mobile pinged, an incoming text from the same number that had been on the card, as he left the establishment. **Hire him. Keep him on a short leash. Let me know if things go sour.** Greg deleted it.

A couple of days later, the business card that he'd declined, pushed away, was waiting for him on the corner of his desk.

Inside his locked office.

Rather than ask around if someone had put it there, he tucked it in the folder with the rest of Sherlock's paperwork.

++

Sherlock knuckled down a bit, added to his completed or at least investigated workload. They took a break, had dinner out, and John was careful to keep their conversation topics light while eating, knowing Sherlock didn't need any negative associations with something like eating that he found a mundane struggle. Once they were back in the flat, he sat, stretched, toed off his shoes. "I've been thinking we should probably talk about --"

"Here it comes."

"Yes, probably. You've been bringing it up --" John had waited until Sherlock'd tucked the files away for the night, and had made the rounds of the flat again, fidgeting as he often did before settling down on the couch. He was quiet now, watching John, hands still in his lap. "You're not ready now, but you will be."

"I don't want to talk about it." He stood, stalked off toward the bedroom. John paused long enough to hopefully let Sherlock regroup before following him into the bedroom. Sherlock had already pulled on sleep pants and was standing with his back to John, who took a moment with his own pyjamas before sitting on the edge of his cot.

"We need to. You're concerned, and you shouldn't be." Keeping his voice calm, gentle, he hoped Sherlock wouldn't completely shut him out.

"Nothing has ever worked."

"You can do this."

"I've always relapsed."

"This is a gradual transition, Sherlock. It's positive. It's necessary."

"Nothing has lasted."

"This time is different."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"So you said." John hoped his voice was gentle, and he reached out an arm to turn on the small lamp before turning off the brighter light. It seemed to help bring down the emotion, the mood. Sherlock turned around then, his face set, unhappy, and John felt compassion for him. "But I can't stay forever, so we should discuss some things that should make this easier, do-able, and safe for you."

"Stay."

John tried not to chuckle. "You know, part of me would really like to. You're fascinating, and I think you are a pretty amazing person. I've explained some of this before. But my being here is keeping you from moving forward, from making even more progress that I know you're capable of ... of owning, of succeeding."

"No."

"The goal is for you to depend on yourself. Not to depend on me, or anyone else."

"I have nothing to say about it."

"You can at least listen to me, then."

"No." He deliberately pressed his lips together, turned away slightly, giving the very clear message that he was done.

"Then I guess," John sighed wearily, dramatically, and he hoped Sherlock's interest was stirred at his exaggeration, "I'm going to have to have this meeting with Mycroft, and he and I will make the exit strategy."

John kept his eyes on Sherlock, steadily, to note that he was solemn, serious, and listening.

"You realise it would be better for you if you and I --"

"Tomorrow night." He was still unhappy. "Or the day after."

"It's not let's make a deal, here," John advised. "We need to --"

"And Mycroft is not invited."

"Thank god for small favours." John couldn't help the interjection, the reminder that he and Sherlock were really on the same side, and if it took aligning against Sherlock's brother, he was okay with it.

John could tell that Sherlock didn't want to, was actively trying not to, but he chuckled at that despite his efforts.

 ++

Rather than blindside Sherlock with a lot of surprises, or even a formal conversation that he'd been dreading, John made a decision. Given Sherlock's reluctance to actually talk about things, John came up with a less confrontational idea instead, and ended up drafting a list of things he (or he and Sherlock, though that was less likely) needed in place moving forward. At least, a preliminary strategy of some items he wanted Sherlock aware of.

_Transitional Plan_

_Identify the fear(s) about physician-patient relationship ending._

_Mindfulness - be consciously aware of the truth and the facts about a situation. For instance, John will be leaving eventually because Sherlock is healthier, more stable, and able to care for himself (and not because of a lack of caring, a personal dislike, or any sort of emotional punishment). This requires objectivity._

_Build a network of support. This can include work acquaintances, neighbours, family, and professional contacts._

_John and Sherlock will continue to talk. Follow up appointments and sessions will facilitate independence. Sherlock will initiate making these appointments with Dr. Watson and initially will be twice a week for one hour. Weekly visits will continue after that for a period of time, if they both determine it is helpful. If additional support from Dr. Watson is needed, arrangements will be determined based on availability and urgency._

_Focus on self-esteem building activities._

_Separate the past from the present. History does not necessarily repeat itself._

_Express emotion or feeling without expectation of return favour. Avoid manipulative behaviours._

_Minimise negativity in self and others. Half-full as opposed to half-empty. The glass is also refillable._

_Sherlock needs to make a list of acceptable substitutions and strategies for moments of intense craving or handling serious thoughts of using again._

_No cigarettes. Nicotine transdermal remains available if needed, one at a time. No exceptions._

_Expected date when plan will start to be put in place:  immediately_

_Expected date when live-in support will no longer be needed:  probably about two weeks, though it could be sooner if mutually agreed on._  

For kicks, John added one final line, hoped Sherlock would appreciate it:  _Deep Breath!_

He typed it up, printed it out, signed it, placed it in a file, and set it atop the stack of files where Sherlock kept his active case files. John hoped it wouldn't end up in a little pile of ash.

++

"So I read over your little list, your plan."

"All right." Before John could ask a casual, safe-territory question, Sherlock was already speaking again.

"I don't really want to focus on it too much. It makes me, I don't know, ... sad."

John didn't respond, simply waited for Sherlock to look over at him. His smile was returned, a fond exchange of friendship, and, if John were honest, much more than that too. "I'll miss you a lot too."

"I read it though."

"They are all important, and I think it would be best for us to --"

"I crossed out the last item." John was not surprised, and would actually have been a little disappointed if Sherlock didn't comment on it or otherwise react to the hated phrase.

"Pay attention to the others, then." John wanted to say so much, settled simply on, "Make that list. Hang it somewhere obvious."

A long drawn out moment, Sherlock's brows creased, eyes dark, thoughts obviously whirling. In the end, he turned to stare at John, who waited calmly, patiently. "We'll see," he said finally.

++

John had intentionally left something big off the list, the plan, hoping to ease the transition. He needed to wean Sherlock, in a variety of steps, from where they were, with John on a cot in his bedroom, to sleeping alone. And waking up alone. And being okay with both.

One night, John made sure Sherlock was tired, had very little downtime, no nap, no laying on the couch even, combined with as much fresh air and activity as he could get away with without being ridiculous. Sherlock'd managed to put in quite a few research hours for Greg, and a bit of legwork too. John settled in with a book that Sherlock had lambasted up one side and down the other as lame, mundane, not worth the paper it was printed on, and a few other insults including a personal one about John's pathetic reading level. He attempted to spoil the ending. "Well, I like it, and I'm at a big point here. Go ahead in without me. I'll be along in just a little while, probably after you're asleep." John returned to the words on the page, keeping an eye on Sherlock in his peripheral vision.

Sherlock seemed unsure.

"I'll be along. Go rest, at least lie down, put the light out, this way, my reading in there won't bother you."

He didn't resist, but clearly wasn't happy with the turn of events. More hesitation, but he didn't argue.

"I'll try not to wake you when I come in, yeah?" There was enough of an eye connection that John was fairly certain Sherlock could see beyond the immediacy of the situation, the red herring of the book. A smile, nod, and John turned his attention back to the book in his hands.

A quiet exhale, and Sherlock padded down the hall by himself. When John finally did slip into the bedroom, Sherlock was dozing very lightly, but had definitely fallen asleep, all on his own.

The next night, Sherlock had really found a groove and was making quite a bit of headway on one of Greg's files. By design and only a slight embellishment, John was tired, and made sure to let Sherlock know he'd probably be turning in early. There was a hesitancy, a consideration, and he could see the debate on Sherlock's face as he thought of his two choices - join John and turn in, or keep working on his own.

"It's fine, keep going if you're at a good spot."

"You're sure?"

"Of course."

"And you trust me not to get into trouble?"

"Do you have plans to get into trouble, do something you know you shouldn't?"

"Not yet." Another lopsided smile, as if he were contemplating some various misbehaviours. "I'll work on it perhaps, if the mood strikes."

Ignoring Sherlock's mock threat, he rubbed a hand across his legitimately tired face. "I'm turning in." He stood, and seemed to take stock of Sherlock's demeanor. "You'll close up out here?"

"Fairly certain I can handle it, yeah." A frisson of tension, of change, of progress ran through them, in the room. John nodded, turned away.

John brought his mobile with him, connected into the cameras that were still in a few places in the flat, though he didn't use them hardly at all anymore, and for a few minutes watched Sherlock at the computer. He worked for quite a bit, and eventually got himself something to drink from the kitchen, then locked up and extinguished the lights. By the time he crawled into his bed, mostly quietly, John had long closed out of his mobile and was breathing evenly as if already asleep.

++

Most of the time, when Sherlock moved something in the flat, it was out of boredom, or that something was in his way, but not always. Less often, it was to get John's attention (wash me, fix me, take care of this), saying, in effect, _pay attention to me!_ The file containing John's written transition plan ended up back on the end table, under John's book. Clearly, Sherlock wanted him to notice, and John waited until Sherlock was otherwise involved in another file before flipping it open. Sherlock had added his scrawl, his illegible signature to the form, along with another statement:

_I would like to take you to dinner sometime_

John smiled, a warm feeling at the thought of Sherlock completely recovered, himself in a better place, the boundaries that held him back removed. Picking up a pen, he toyed with a few options for a response, settled on,

 _I'd like that very much, once you are completely and officially discharged from my care. To celebrate._  He set it back into the pile where Sherlock would certainly find it.

The next morning it was back on the end table, _You still have Mycroft's credit card? He could treat us to somewhere expensive!_

His response that evening, _Perfect! - oh, and you should work on that list I asked for. Specific things you can do._

Sherlock must've read the note in the morning, and opted to take their exchange to text message. John was rinsing dishes from breakfast - in truth, waiting for his tea to steep - when his phone pinged. **I'll write the list later**

 **Here's number 1: deep breath.**   John knew it had been read when there was a pathetic snort from the sitting room.

**Sod off.**

**It's just to help you get started.**

**That suggestion is not making the list at all.**

++

Most of the time, Sherlock and John stopped by the NSY to exchange files, get more information, catch up with the investigating officer of record. Every now and again, though, Greg stopped by Baker Street to discuss something, leave information, or perhaps just check up on the two of them. One night, Greg had just collected two files, dropped off another.

Sherlock was rather animated about one of them. "You know, if I could have seen this actual scene, before evidence had been collected, this would probably already have resulted in an arrest. Your investigators likely contaminated evidence, or missed something crucial, some of your inept --"

John cleared his throat and Sherlock stopped, looked, changed tacks.

"I think it might have been a better choice," he began, speaking methodically, obviously a canned suggestion of John's so blatant that even Greg perked up to listen. John smiled unabashedly when he repeated, "a better choice," leaning on the word choice for emphasis, "if I had come along, maybe given your coworkers some assistance, some guidance, I might have been able to help with the evidence."

Greg smirked. "Okay, Sherlock. You keep saying stuff like that." Greg tapped at the file. "So tell me, exactly, in this case, what would you have done differently that could have changed the outcome? How about changed the investigation? Ended up solved sooner?"

Sherlock and John exchanged a look. When they'd discussed this very option earlier, John had encouraged Sherlock to be prepared with specifics.

"Maybe we could talk about it over tea?" John suggested.

Sherlock huffed. "I have no idea, because I couldn't see the area, appreciate the layout, perhaps the scent or the time of day, the shadows or footprints _or anything else I don't know because I wasn't there!"_

Greg was just about to accept the offer of a hot beverage when his mobile sounded a rather urgent, attention getting incoming text tone.

"Well, that's ..." and his sentence trailed off. "Sorry, can't stay now, actually." A moment of vaccillation, Greg's mobile stuttering in his hand, his gaze at Sherlock, then John, then back at Sherlock taking in the both of them, considering, thinking. "Listen, this one might... " he paused again, hesitating as he brushed a hand across his upper lip, down his chin. "I think I might like to bring you along with me on this one, from the get-go."

John was already on his feet, having listened to Sherlock complain often enough about insufficient evidence, details, photos, procedures, and the like. Sherlock's thumb was flicking through pages of the file as he probably prepared his mental list of specifics, but he'd raised his head to listen, shocked and a little disbelieving. John puzzled a moment that he wasn't already putting on his coat and complaining that they were taking too long.

"Did you hear that, Sherlock?" John took the file from him, closed it. "Are you interested?"

 _Not kidding, then._ Speech was restored, "Yes," and he nodded, matter-of-factly and stood up to address Greg. "Of course. Perhaps this time your lot won't bungle it, make a mess of the scene."

"Listen, you touch nothing. You keep close to me, both of you, at all times." He'd zipped, and was already gesturing toward the door, and they tumbled out onto the kerb. "My car's --" Greg said, impatiently, gesturing, pointing, almost ready to shove Sherlock into the back of it.

John had already considered this, and spoke quite authoritatively to Greg. "Sherlock and I will take a cab." No questions asked, no discussion.

"Ridiculous. My car's --" he began again.

John was ready for him. "He and I have a few things to discuss, privately. We are not riding in a police car tonight." He was aware that Sherlock shot him a grateful, relieved glance, but maintained his focus on Greg.

Greg nodded, though he clearly thought it was unnecessary, a waste of time. "I hope you know what you're doing here." He shook his head at them. "Here's the address," he added, flicking a bit at his mobile until both John's and Sherlock's pinged with an incoming text.

"Got it." John took Sherlock's arm as they watched Greg slide behind the wheel of his panda car and drive away without looking back. "You all right? This is what you've wanted a long time now." Sherlock assured him he was fine.

The case that night was fairly straightforward, with Sherlock looking, watching, and thinking, followed by suggesting, deducing, and solving. In the end, the data he'd discovered and uncovered led to the case being solved that evening, a warrant issued, an arrest pending. John watched him carefully, ready to intervene if necessary when he began to run off his mouth a bit as he criticised and pointed out some flaws with Greg's staff's procedures. One of the detectives bristled and took offense, launching her discontent to the small group there, Greg, John, and Sherlock included. "You're new here," she fussed, "and you would be wise to listen more and talk less." She turned to Greg. "Are you going to let him talk to me like he did? Because if he keeps it up, I'll refuse to work with him."

"We'll take care of it," he assured her, guiding her away from where he stood with John and Sherlock. "Nice job, truly. Impressive, what you can do. Your assistance tonight was appreciated." John could sense the downside of what was coming before Sherlock did. "You're going to need to watch the negativity, however. Tone it down," he clarified. "Less personal."

Sherlock snorted, shaking his head. "Believe me, I already was."

"You cannot afford to alienate my staff, Sherlock. Trust me on that." He glanced at John with concern, who easily picked up on what Lestrade was getting at. "Am I making myself clear?"

"Sherlock?" John prompted.

"What?"

"That question was directed at you. You understand?"

"I can't do what I do if I have to worry about speaking my mind or being offensive." He looked between John and Greg. "Both of you know it's my baseline temperament." He strode off, apparently ready to leave John behind.

With a resigned sigh, John shook his head, ready to follow lest he have to get his own cab. "I'll talk to him. He'll be worth it, I'm sure of it."

There was displeased muttering from Sherlock that neither could make out but his aggravation was obvious. "Until then," Greg said, chuckling, "seems we have our work cut out for us." Greg pocketed his notes, preparing to move on. "Let me know if I can be of any help with him."

"I just may do that." A cab was just arriving under Sherlock's raised arm. John hustled over to slide in next to Sherlock just in the nick of time.

++ 

Sherlock had finally stumbled on a case that involved some fibre studies from the carpet where the crime had taken place, and a few random ash scrapings from the scene, both inside the house and near the window, where the point of entry had been. And so, to John's concern, he was incinerating a variety of tobacco products, large leaf tobacco and then viewing it under his microscope. He was also nagging Greg for some marijuana leaves from their inventory or confiscated items room so that he could fully investigate.

"Besides," Sherlock said to him there in Greg's office, "how do you expect me to be thorough when you deny me what I need to accomplish my job?"

"Find photos online. Because, no, I'm not supplying you with anything illegal." Greg could tell Sherlock was going to fuss again, and struck pre-emptively. "No. Nothing from my sealed evidence room. And you know, most of that is simply C&D, confiscate and destroy, not C&M, confiscate and maintain."

John was fairly certain the nudge he gave Sherlock with his elbow was justified when Sherlock muttered, "Waste of good product, more's the pity."

So later, Sherlock had opened a few files and was attempting to do as Greg suggested, not without a large degree of complaining. John looked up, however, when from the microscope there was a low whistle of appreciation and admiration from Sherlock. A breathy 'wow' and John's curiosity got the better of him.

"Something good?" John asked, and when Sherlock nodded, he came to stand behind him. Sherlock made another adjustment to the focus and position of the slide, then backed off the microscope to let John peer over his shoulder, into the eyepieces. The image was remarkable - a colour-enhanced, stained image, a mosaic of geometric design. There were shards and lines, angles, starbursts, and crisp layers. "Is that ...?"

"Yes, well, let's just say it's similar to cannabis leaf ash, under fluorescein stain, oil immersion lens."

"Where'd you obtain ... you know, never mind." John's hand settled on Sherlock's shoulder as he looked, companionable and interested. "Remarkable."

"Try here," Sherlock offered, leaning in to look as John backed off and Sherlock made a minute adjustment with the knobs. "See those patterns?"

"Yes. Asymmetrical for the most part, but the layers..." Unaccustomed to the eyepiece, John backed off to blink a few times before returning. "Random?"

"Yes, and complex. Look at the striated sections across the top of the slide." They swapped places again, briefly, letting Sherlock verify what he was seeing and letting John view, "If Greg had let me have any fresh samples, from the leaf itself rather than the dried stuff, or if _you_ would ...?"

"No."

"... it'd be a better sample. This is rather limited."

He stood back, looked at the computer screen for a few minutes, lost in thought. "You know," John said, softly, hoping Sherlock was in a good place and receptive, "I think a lot of people are kind of like that. Random and ordered, sometimes complex. Rough on the outside, maybe, but amazing right under the surface if you look hard enough."

Sherlock was staring off, but very obviously listening. His breathing grew quieter. "And sometimes it takes the right kind of heat," he began.

"Fire, even," John suggested when Sherlock had paused.

"To make it ..."

"Beautiful?"

"I suppose."

"You're like that, I think," John offered, tentatively testing the water. When Sherlock had heard it, he angled so he was looking at John, testing his sincerity and trying to appease his own curiousity. "You are today a man you were not even six months ago, or three months ago. You've come through, and are," and here he hesitated, again unsure and not looking to cross a line. "It might sound sappy, I guess, but you're certainly rough around the edges, but deep water underneath. Amazing, what you have managed to do with, well..., a bit of ashes."

"You're right. Very sappy."

"I stand by it. It's a compliment, you know." John was glad he'd spoken it, and could see that Sherlock was not exactly put off.

"A _sappy_ one." Sherlock still seemed a bit introspective, listening, considering. There was a fond smile despite his snarkiness. "But thanks, I guess."

"If people only bothered to really look..."

"I've said before, people see but they do not observe." Sherlock had indeed said it, more than once, most recently with a terribly acerbic tone to one of the crime scene technicians.

"I think with some people, yourself included, you have to maybe look a little harder, dig a little deeper, to see beauty in the ashes, a refiner's fire, the castle rising in the ruins."

"Not sure I've ever considered ashes to be beautiful. Suppose, in their own way?" He glanced in the microscope, pressed a few keys on the laptop to bring up a digital set he'd found online that were suboptimal. He gestured at the laptop image. "They're different."

John leaned over when Sherlock moved his head out of the way so that John could have access to the eyepieces again. "Yes, unique. Your life, very telling. You've taken something rough, something hard, that hasn't been easy, parts of it have been ugly even." Sherlock snickered, shaking his head a bit at John's truthful assessment. "No, I mean it, parts of it were. But you've managed to pull something good out of it. Rebuild the castle out of the ruins I think."

"Says you from the outside looking in."

"True. But I've known you long enough that I think it's accurate. Don't you agree, at least a little?"

"I think your assessment of my life mostly parallels the shitty stuff that's happened in your own. Not that you've ever really talked about it, but obviously something traumatic. Getting shot, whatever demons still haunt you about it. You're not immune to that description of your own life, either." John could feel his face burn, his throat thicken. Demons, indeed. If he cared to think about it, he could still see that little boy, wounded, violated, bleeding, his big brown, trusting eyes ...  Sherlock wasn't done, either. "The injury, your career plans, being alone? Truth, I think you need to look in a mirror sometimes too. Because otherwise, you'll never see what others see instead of the, what word did you say, ruins?" Sherlock scrolled through the laptop, pulled up another few images. "Beauty from ashes, John?"

"Sometimes it's literal." He gestured at the actual char there on the table, the slides, the microscope. "It's hard for me to see it in myself. I'm not sure..."

"It's no different for me. Perspective is hard."

"Perspective is everything," John reminded him. And reminded _himself._  

Sherlock seemed to change gears, with everything about his tone, posture, and approach. "So, will you ask Lestrade for a sample of _fresh_ cannabis leaf? Or, if you'd let me, a few phone calls, I could definitely obtain ..." John cleared his throat so Sherlock let his statement hang unfinished. "It would be worth it, you know, the differences would be ..."

Shaking his head, chuckling, John interrupted, resolutely, coolly. "Not on your life."

++

A few cases still frustrated Sherlock. One of them became a nightly re-reading. Occasionally he researched, sometimes he followed leads or discussed it with John. One night, muttering to himself, John started to think harder about how to help. Sherlock ran his hands through his hair, "Maybe I need to ... I can't see how," and papers rustled, an aggravated shaking of the file, a turn of the page that could easily have been followed by a rip, shred, or throw. "Why doesn't this make any sense?"

"Can I suggest something?"

"Is that like asking someone if they can ask a question?"

"Perhaps a better question is will you listen to something?" John did have something in mind that he hoped Sherlock would thoughtfully consider.

"I reserve the right to call it stupid."

"Fine." John thought he probably would, no matter what, and end with labeling John as a big idiot again. "Would it help if you used a concept map?"

"What is that?"

"It's a flowchart, with main themes, characters, people, details. Put together using a weblike structure, in medicine we used them as algorithms. They're frequently used in well, lots of things. Sciences, engineering, whatever helps a person stay organised. Particularly useful while researching, diagramming, writing a paper for instance. It shows links, makes connections.  Maybe it would help here?"

"A concept map." Sherlock angled his head. "Not dissimilar to a Venn diagram?"

"A Venn diagram shows more intersection, more about connections, comparing or contrasting, but ostensibly, yes." John located a small pale yellow sticky note tablet. "Take your victim, what was it, Peter? And he'd been seen here," and John wrote down a few more of the details he'd already known. "He was found here," and John moved to the wall to place the notes. "Found by friends, his wallet found in an alley, _here_." A few more notes written, tagged up in a random pattern on the wallpaper. _Last seen,_ John wrote, along with the _estimated time of death_ from the coroner. Both stared at the wall.

"Trainers."

John stared.

"Write it down."

John did not move to write anything, but let his hand move to his hip, waiting on Sherlock and proving a point. "Write it down _please_."

Some other words, arranged by John while Sherlock's mind whirled. With a quiet fervor, Sherlock began to pace the room, mumbling a bit to himself, coming to the wall periodically.

"You can move them around," John suggested, moving the weapon to the shoes, the discoverer of the body to the wallet. "That's kind of the point. To try n--"

"Oh, I've solved it now." He walked to the couch, climbed directly over it, stepping wherever he wanted, deep in thought. "The solution was obvious."

"It's this?" John asked, puzzled, gesturing at the notes.

"Oh, no, that is all wrong. Every bit of it. Ridiculous actually," and he launched into why John's connections were flawed. "But this, using the wall as a visual. That's absolutely inspired." He came to stand by it again. "What did you call it?"

"A concept map."

"Hmm." The post-its were rearranged again so Sherlock could explain the solution and how John's pathetic mistakes had helped solve it. The following day, a new case had been diagrammed, though upon closer inspection, some of the notes had been stuck to the wall using staples, nails, and in the case of the victim, a knife. When John asked, Sherlock raised an eyebrow and berated him with a comment that of course the victim had to be held to the wall with a deadly instrument. John did not look forward to the day when Mrs. Hudson noticed.

 ++ 

"So tonight..." John began. "I set up some dinner plans."

"No thanks. Busy." He was making notes on something he'd printed. "Pass."

"Non-negotiable." Sherlock rolled his eyes at John, huffed, and then waited. "You're meeting your brother for dinner."

"What?" He hedged, heard the pronoun, the singular pronoun.

"You heard me."

"No, actually I'm not. I refuse."

"And I'm going out as well. Plans."

 _"Plans."_ Sherlock made it sound sinister and shady.

"I have different plans. You're meeting Mycroft, without me."

He'd coordinated this night, wanted to talk with Greg privately, somewhere neutral, about some ideas, help, assistance, and hopefully recruit him as a member of Sherlock's support system for after he had been discharged from John's care and monitoring. Greg already had agreed to help him, but John needed to be more comfortable that someone other than himself, and later, Mycroft, would be looking out for Sherlock and privy to some of his history. Just some. Mycroft had already been versed on John's objective, was definitely agreeable, and had made dinner reservations at some exclusive, membership only club he belonged to. He'd been initially a bit taken aback. It sounded to John like the brothers really did not interact beyond what was minimally necessary.

"Change them. I'll only go if you go with us."

Once again, John chose not to engage with that. "You should finish up. Mycroft will be here shortly to collect you."

"If you press this issue, I swear to you there will be drastic results."

"It's just dinner."

"It's _Mycroft_."

"Yeah, well, we all have our crosses to bear."

"Where are you going?"

John smiled. "Oh, I don't know that it's any of your business. But just for kicks, I will tell you that it's one of the following: I have a date, I'm meeting with a former patient, or I'm headed to a bar to watch an LFC game tonight."

For a few seconds, Sherlock stared hard at John as if xraying the inside of his brain with his laser sharp glare. An aggravated sigh, and he shrugged. "Fine, I'll have dinner with Mycroft, he deserves a bit of humiliating behaviour from his chosen dinner partner anyway, in one of his usual haunts, among his snooty friends. I can certainly oblige him with that, come up with something outrageous. But you, you need to tell Greg that he should switch teams, Man City's never going to win tonight."

John should have known that Sherlock would figure out not only who he was meeting, but what match they were watching, and who Greg would be rooting for. Effortlessly.

++

The evening was both strange and restorative. John enjoyed knocking back a pint, his first in a long time, with Greg as they watched the football game. He shared with him that Sherlock will clearly benefit from a mentor-type role in his life, particularly when John's presence would scale way back. Greg seemed not only interested but invested. He already knew his background, could piece together the rest, and had already demonstrated that he was willing to work with him. He jotted a few notes and mentioned to John that he would attempt to pair Sherlock up with a few of the more tolerant individuals he worked with, to see if between them all they could mitigate his conduct.

John arrived home long before Sherlock did, and was flipping idly through telly channels when Sherlock was done hanging up his long coat.

"Nice evening?" A click, and the television went to black.

"Actually, yes, it was," he uttered, waiting for John to look up with a pleased but surprised expression. The grin turned sinister. "Sent my food back twice. Found a way to sneak a dried bug into another diner's water glass. Belched a few times around the word Wallaby, which may not sound like much, but you should try it, it's quite challenging. Managed to get the two tables in our vicinity requesting to be moved away from us. Ordered champagne, popped out a wall sconce when I convinced the wine steward to let me open it. Shame, really. I was aiming for the top of Mycroft's ear."

"Is that all?"

A mischievous, victorious grin. "Of course not. Burst into very believable tears and convinced one of the very sympathetic busboys that Mycroft'd just cheated on me with a woman."

"You didn't."

"I did. Although it ended up, just the thought of it, making me slightly nauseous at the very idea. Was glad I waited to pull the pin out of that grenade until after dinner at least was finished."

"Well, you managed to have a night out."

"Mycroft doesn't count."

"Sure it does."

"You're a twisted man, if an evening out with Mycroft counts as a social life."

"It's better than sitting here every night with me. Or by yourself." Sherlock made a face, clearly disagreeing. "Well, you know what I --"

Sherlock blinked a few times while John waited. "You've been very good company to me." There was an openness to Sherlock's expression, his tone even. It was quite different from just a moment before.

"I agree." The joking from earlier, the banter, was gone, and the voices both had grown serious, approaching heartfelt. "But I am a little concerned for the next time we have dinner. Seems you had a bit too much fun."

They stared at each other for a few moments, no further words necessary. They just plain liked each other's company. 

++

The next morning, another summons from Lestrade, a hustling of the both of them to an area that Sherlock knew and that John had heard of - known for it's drug use, abuse, dealing, selling, and overdose deaths. The case itself took a back seat to an unexpected finding, a bunch of high, impaired, panicked young adults running away, fast as they could, leaving behind a trail of debris and an unresponsive very young woman under a blanket.

Lestrade had knelt by her side, felt for a pulse, seeing no signs of circulation, early signs of rigour as well as livor mortis, combined with her limbs being already cold, and had requested an ambulance for body retrieval. The building was adjacent to a loud machinery factory, a busy street, the room loud with the insertion team, the entire area a cacophony of sound. John watched Sherlock analyze the building, the outward signs of the girl.

"John, what do you make of this?" he asked, lifting her hand as he observed the rounded, stubbiness of her fingertips.

"Clubbing." John suggested, "sign of chronic hypoxia." As he approached, knelt, donning gloves, he sniffed. "I smell ..." and he pulled back the blanket slightly, "blood?"

There were other signs, he saw, a boggy abdomen, early breast engorgement, and a stronger scent of old, sour blood. "She's postpartum. Very recently," John declared quietly. At that moment, the machinery outside cut out suddenly, rendering the room almost eerily still for a few seconds. None of them had realised exactly how bad the background noise had been. From somewhere nearby, not too far off in the distance, a high-pitched shrill, piercing yet muted cry.

"That's a newborn cry," John breathed, and they all turned in the direction of the sound.

In short order, Greg's officers had located the source, and a small crowd, John and Sherlock among them, gathered around the wailing, unkempt, unwell infant that had been picked up and was in one of the officer's arms. At Greg's direction, the baby, wrapped in a makeshift blanket of indeterminate origin, was handed to John.

"I know it's been a long time, but this is an NAS baby," John said. "I'm fairly certain." The baby was warm, sweaty, crying the high-pitched wail of an infant in pain.

"NAS?"

"Neonatal abstinence syndrome. Born addicted." John held the baby close, assessing for breathing and pulse, muscle tone, responsiveness. "Hopefully the ambulance will be here soon." After a quick, cursory assessment for trauma, he swaddled the baby best he could - a boy. Nearby were a few meager things that had been gathered for a baby. Empty bottles, blanket, a dirty mattress. It all made John shudder, and he estimated the baby to be only a couple of days old at the most.

"Live patient trumps the dead one, that's for sure." Greg spoke into his radio, turning away for a moment, speaking to the dispatcher so the ambulance would know ahead of time to expect a change of reason for their visit.

"What's wrong with it?" Sherlock said low to John. "Can't you make it stop?"

"Him, actually. Going through withdrawal, cold turkey. He's having pain." John went on to explain in only a few sentences, that a drug-addicted mother who gave birth to a drug addicted baby, that the baby would suffer for it. Typically there was a highpitched, wailing, cry that was nonstop, unconsolable, and the newborn would be prone to a variety of complications. "They'll take him to a hospital, help him detox."

"Detox? At this age?" Greg stared, his voice catching a bit as he watched.

"He's become accustomed to pain medication, so all of a sudden not getting any, gives him pain. Newborns withdraw just like adults."

"Certainly sounds that way," one of the other detectives said before shaking his head sadly, then turning to Greg. "Do you need us to stick around here?"

A glance at the scene, at John, and Greg shook his head. "I think we're okay here."

"I'm good," John said at Greg's questioning expression, then turned back to the baby. Clearly the baby was in distress, far beyond typical hungry-wet-tired crying of a very small baby. "He's probably dehydrated, too," John said, brushing a gloved hand over the newborns sunken fontanel. "The hospital'll give him methadone, or morphine eventually, wean him off slowly." One of the detectives asked him if he wanted one of the bottles there, but John declined, fearing more contamination would be unhelpful. And possibly harmful. The baby was still crying with a surprising degree of energy, and John wrapped him a bit tighter. One of the officers handed him another ratty blanket laying nearby, slightly cleaner, to try to protect him from the elements. He tried a few positions, tried sliding his gloved knuckle into the baby's mouth to see if perhaps sucking would pacify him, all to no avail. The cry, though, was reassuring to John. Though it was a god-awful sound to listen to, it was a good sign.

"That's terrible." This observation came from one of the other police officers.

The ambulance crew arrived, unloaded the rig, taking a few more seemingly long minutes to reach them. The baby was still rigid, his movements jerking, twitching. John offered as much hand-off as he could, passed the baby to one of the medics. They were just loading into the ambulance when one of them gasped, "Shit, he's starting to seize." The group watched as the sirens turned on, lights flashing, and the baby was whisked away. There was a pervasive heaviness over the group left behind, staring after the flashing lights.

It only took one look at Sherlock for John to know that it was time to get Sherlock away from the scene.

++

Sherlock was still quiet, upset clearly, when they arrived back home at Baker Street. The brief walk, tube ride, another few blocks into the wind, had all been silent.

"He'll survive?" he asked finally, to John's questioning glance.

"Probably." John didn't say much more, knowing the painful road of detox, the hyperthermia, immature nervous system, the unsoothable nature of a NAS baby was not an easy start to his poor life. He had a rough road before it would start to get even remotely better. "Thank goodness, though, that he got medical care already. Longer, and possibly ... Anyway, they'll help him."

Sherlock had a lot whirling through his mind, some of it clearly written in the distress of his features.

"You have something you want to say?"

"How could his mother do that to him?"

"I'm sure she didn't mean to."

"Of course she did, she continued to _use_ didn't she?"

John was a bit astounded that Sherlock asked the question, kept silent for a long time, until Sherlock gestured that he was growing annoyed at John's lack of response to his question. "Sherlock, really, you don't see it?" Before speaking gently, John made sure, sitting next to him, that his hand was over Sherlock's folded hands in his lap. "She's an addict, she never got the right kind of help."

"She harmed her baby. It's abuse."

"Could you have stopped because it was hurting someone else?"

"Of course I could have."

"I'm not so sure." John moved so that his arm was across Sherlock's shoulders. "It's hard to quit, yeah?" 

"It doesn't matter," he said with very little feeling. "It's too late for her anyway. And the damage was already done to the baby, sounded like."

"Well..." he began.

"Not that I've heard a lot of babies cries, but that was ... highly irregular."

"It was."

"You've seen a lot of that."

"A lot of what?" John had been inclined to just agree, but he was curious what Sherlock was thinking about and where his mind was headed. _NAS? no not really._

"Consequences for someone else's bad choices?"

The small sigh and chuckle drew and held Sherlock's attention. "Of course. People make bad medical decisions that affect others. And the war, fighting, injury, almost all of that I would consider undeserved consequences."

"It sucks. And it's not fixable."

Even later into the evening, the situation with the dead mother and the impaired baby came up in conversation from time to time, and Sherlock was still puzzling over the neonatal sequelae of maternal addiction as they turned in for the night.

Once the room was dark, and it had been silent a while, Sherlock was clearly acting restless again. John waited a long time before speaking. "You okay?" He could hear the sleep-hoarseness, the different, lower sound from laying down, resting. "I know what we saw earlier bothered you. Bothers you."

"I just can't get the picture out of my head, of her despair. And that baby, god, did you see how awful he looked. Dirty and unwanted." Sherlock huffed loudly, pulling at pillows or something equally active from across the dark room. "It might have been better for her to have overdosed before he was even born, take him with her."

While all of John wanted to immediately interject, disagree, and impose his sanctity of life medical morality into the conversation, he didn't. "Really? Seems kind of harsh." He said slowly, quiet.

"He's off to a terrible start. You said yourself there can be lasting defects, learning disabilities. He's already lost his mum. Weeks of inpatient care."

"I don't know, and I'm not sure I agree. Just because something's hard, or you might not get a perfect outcome, does that mean it's not worth it?" 

"The way he _looked_ , though, John. How is that not still upsetting you?"

"He'll be okay. They have these programmes in the hospital. They have volunteers who come in and hold babies. There are 'Eat-Sleep-Console' programmes."

"But just the way he _looked_ was ..."

"Why did that upset you?"

"Why didn't that upset you?"

"Because crying is good. Crying is always better than limp or floppy or not crying at all." John hoped he was positive. "But I'm sorry the images are still hanging on to you."

"I close my eyes, and there he is."

"Can I go a little philosophical on you for a minute?"

"I suppose." He sounded skeptical already. "You're going to anyway, so."

"So there are some studies out, for a long time now actually, about studying the psychology of improving someone's outlook, their overall perceptions, life satisfaction scores, that kind of thing. So I start with that, that this is not just blowing smoke, it's studied, measurable, evidence-based yeah?" Brief pause. "At the end of a day, or when there is a moment to look back at a block of time, you should think back over your day and remember three things that went well, that you enjoyed, or something that you're grateful for."

"Three things."

"Three good things, yes. Best to write them down, simple phrases or a specific memory."

"This is up there with your beauty from ashes sentimental journey from the other day."

"Sherlock."

"Yes, got it, three good things."

John let the silence grow comfortable, the two of them just breathing. He didn't want to force the idea on him or push too hard. "I can think of one big one that you might agree with: Lestrade called on you early to help and give input on the case."

"There ended up being no case."

"He called ..."

"The woman died. There was no crime. I had nothing to do."

John pinched the bridge of his nose, willed his voice to stay casual. "You're really not getting the point of this." An unintelligible muttering. "The point is good things, not frustrations. Lestrade called you. The baby will get the help he needs. Perhaps he'll end up making major contributions to society, you have no idea."

"Or maybe he will end up institutionalised and a burden to the country."

"Dear lord, you're a mess," John breathed but he was chuckling just a little. "Okay, Mr. Consulting Detective: you pick something then. I remind you to consider the name of the exercise, three _good_ things."

Surprisingly, Sherlock had something immediately to share. "There was a long-tailed, albino rat in the drug den, who was watching us from the far corner of the room, from underneath the trash."

Not for the first time, John was grateful for the darkness the hid his incredulous expression. Quiet sigh. "Okay, good. Tell me why that was a good thing for you today."

"In part, because his eyes were red, almost glowing with the angle of the light." John couldn't tell if Sherlock's exhale was at having to explain something so simplistic to him or out of some other frustration. "And because albino rats are fascinating, and he was so curious, watching."

"Albino rats are ..."

" _Fascinating_ , yes, do keep up. Or maybe he was hoping we'd leave so he could come out and have --"

_"Don't say it."_

"--lunch."

"God Sherlock, seriously?" John blew out a breath, searching for a way to focus again without shuddering. "Okay, back to the good rat. He was curious, let's stick with that." Though he couldn't be sure, he thought perhaps Sherlock was chuckling a little, probably only hoping to get a rise out of John for amusement purposes. "Anything else?"

"I liked watching you in action, examining not only the dead girl but the baby. You're very focused."

"Okay." He let the word hesitate, rise in pitch, though he didn't ask for more information.

"You present yourself as quite competent, trustworthy. It was easy to imagine you as a surgeon. Just, I guess, I don't know, believable.  _S_ _afe."_   John knew what that word had meant to them both in the past, both since John had been working with Sherlock, and in times before that, when safety had been completely lacking.

It was not lost on John that Sherlock was aware of scene safety, of vulnerability at times. "Thanks." John didn't want to press him. "I think another good thing today for me was seeing a place like that, drugs and bad decisions, an environment that truthfully, you could have ended up in, had you not hit rock bottom, and then Mycroft get involved to get you some help. I was grateful you seem to be quite fully on the mend and not stuck in a place like that."

Sherlock rolled over, linens rustling again. His breathing was settling, relaxing, and the electricity in the air was much cooler, as if sleep might be a distinct possibility soon. "You know, having had this discussion," he began, then stopped. John was quite encouraged, sensing that Sherlock had perhaps made a good connection, and he was anxious to hear it. Apparently he was waiting for John to make some sort of acknowledgement, so John hummed a bit, deep in his chest, and Sherlock then continued, "I think a pet rat would be a nice addition to the flat, don't you?"

So much for deep responses. "Don't do anything before you run that by Mrs. Hudson. It might be excluded in your flatshare agreement..."

Sherlock ignored him. "I think I'll name him Percival."

The delivery of the pompous name was with flair and attitude. "Really, Percival, not Percy?"

"On second thought," Sherlock breathed, "maybe I'll just call him John."

John let out a giggle, Sherlock joined in, and it wasn't too much longer before John heard a very deep sigh, of Sherlock settling down. "Night," he whispered.

"Mmm." The rest of the night, thankfully, was uneventful as sleep overtook them both. 

++ 

Another day, another case, and again, John is crouched over a body, a woman in her early sixties, while Sherlock poked around in the room where she'd been found. "Burglary, perhaps," he said, pawing at one of the knick-knacks on the shelf, "though no one with any sense of decor..." the thought trailed off as he spied a houseplant caddy, "Dieffenbachia. Known as dumb cane. Ingestion can cause airway swelling." Earlier in the day, John had found Sherlock boiling plant leaves, borrowed from Mrs. Hudson, in order to do some research. The household poison interest had peaked over the last few days and John had been quite careful to monitor every beverage he made, sipped, or left unattended even for a moment. "Perhaps?"

John shook his head at Sherlock's statement. "Natural causes, most likely," he proclaimed. "Fell asleep, perhaps, here on the couch. Never woke up." John glanced over. "Sorry, mate," he whispered loud enough for only Greg and Sherlock to hear.

"Women of this age don't die of natural causes."

"Sometimes they do, actually." John shrugged. "But she has distichiasis. A double set of eyelashes. See?" He put his gloved finger against her eyelid so that the lashes were more visible. Sherlock came over immediately to see what John was pointing out. "Two rows. Unusual. But it is linked with lymphedema sometimes. Look at her ankles? Not the usual distribution unless there's another cause." He turned her head side to side. "Heart disease, see the ear creases?" and he leaned aside so both Sherlock and Lestrade could see. "That's Frank's sign. And you know, look here, these tiny little yellow deposits around her eyes? Fat deposits. Probably hyperlipidaemia, too. Not enough to diagnose by itself, but together, with these findings. Heart disease. Natural causes, Sherlock."

"Not foul play?" Sherlock clarified, and John could sense more than see or hear his disappointment.

"Fairly certain a post-mortem will show a congenital heart condition, with or without heart disease. It's also linked with distichiasis, high cholesterol, and Frank's sign. No finding alone is diagnostic, but they lend a suspicion..."

It wasn't until they were on their way home that Sherlock addressed it. "We make a good team, I think."

"I agree." John said quickly. "Which is why I think Lestrade wants you to start to partner with a couple of his other scene technicians, to help you."

"No."

"To help you get used to working with someone other than me."

"I think you should stay on." Sherlock continued to resist John's efforts. "You. I'll talk to Mycroft, or maybe --"

"Sherlock. Stop, listen. The whole point of this is to give you back your independence, let you function, practice your craft to the fullest, be brilliant and wonderful. For you not to need me."

"I do need you," he whispered.

"Which is why we really need to get started on that transition plan, for both of us." John spoke gently. "It'll happen slowly, and maybe bringing a new crime scene technician over, let you get a feel for --"

"I have no wish to do so."

"I'm sorry about that, but it's time."

"No."

"It won't be immediate, but we need to start discussing how best to help you --"

"No."

"You can refuse to talk about it all you want, but that doesn't change the fact that eventually, when you're ready..."

"I'm not ever going to be ready."

"You are, actually. Give yourself some credit."

"You help me, though. Home, cases. Like today. You ... keep me right."

"You see things no one else can. You're not always going to get it right away."

"I'm better with you accompanying me."

"We'll table this for now, but Sherlock," and John let his steps slow, reached out a hand to grab at Sherlock's sleeve, "you do need to realise we're heading there."

He sulked the rest of the way home. Once the cab had dropped them off and John paid with Mycroft's card again, John took Sherlock's elbow, halted him there at the kerb. "Listen, it's going to happen. That's just plain fact. Truth is, you're probably ready now. But let's take some time, and do this carefully. You might as well be part of making it as good as we can for you, yeah?"

"Nothing about it is going to be good."

++

"That was the most ridiculous thing we've ever done." Adrenalin high, the pair had just shut the door to the kerb, turned to look at each other there at the foot of the steps. They stared a moment, John's eyes bright, Sherlock's shining. Had it not been for the bloody bandage on Sherlock's arm, the evening would likely have been an overwhelmingly, rousing successful one.

"And you invaded Afghanistan."

A case at twilight gone awry, a burglary, a missing person, a feral cat, an open window, and more questions than answers. Greg had left John and Sherlock in the kitchen, went back outside to confer with another investigator, when suddenly there had been a noise, a scuffling from the floor above them, an immediate realisation that they weren't alone.

A stage whisper of John, "He's still in the house!"

In the moment he took to gesture back to where Lestrade had disappeared, Sherlock followed the noise, heading toward an upstairs room on utterly silent feet. "No, stop!" but it was too quiet for Sherlock to hear let alone heed. A split second decision, and John of course moved after him. Sherlock's long legs and failure to slow down, think it through, left John out of earshot, or at least out of range where he was willing to speak, give them away.

Another open door, an open window, out onto a roof, and the heel of Sherlock's shoe as it disappeared from sight. Fearing for his safety, knowing he was being completely impulsive, John followed out onto the roof. There was a few moments of absolute chaos, a flailing of activity, Sherlock having strode immediately to where he expected the criminal. He'd missed a slight alcove, a hiding place, where John watched in seeming slow motion as the stocky stranger, holding a weapon in one hand, took a stealthy step closer to Sherlock.

A lunge, a pounce, a tackle (thank you rugby days and army fitness drills), and John was on top of the struggling man, who was cursing in an Eastern European language, at least judging by the spitting, tone, and delivery. Another tussle, the man under John flipped this way and that, nearly breaking free a few times, and Sherlock crawled close, avoiding the kicking feet.

"Watch that knife, Sherlock. Don't get in the --"

A sudden twist, arm jerked free of John's hand, and a tangle of upper extremities, a sharp blade, and a criminal who was highly motivated to free himself, injuring anyone who dared get in his way in the process if necessary.

"Shit!" John hissed, his hands coming in contact with Sherlock's, and hearing the knife make contact with the solid floor on which they were wrestling. Immediately, there was a good amount of blood at the junction of limbs. _Please let it not be Sherlock, please let it not be.._. With a free hand, John grabbed at the weapon, flung it out of reach - at the feet of Greg Lestrade, who'd heard the scuffle and come to help, another officer on his heels. Between them all, legs and arms held down, and the apprehension was complete. It had been over in seconds.

Handcuffs were produced, John was vaguely aware of another officer, and the man was led away.

"Let me see that," John said, still seated on the rooftop, gesturing at Sherlock's wrist, where he'd managed to suffer a defensive wound that was bleeding.

"It's fine."

"It's not fine. See that? Blood. Which is supposed to stay on the inside of your skin, or so they taught us in med school."

Greg peered down. "You all right?" From his belt he produced a torch, shone it down so that John could see better. "First aid kit in the boot of my car."

"You're a right idiot," John said once he could get a feel for the scope of the wound. It was bleeding but would not require extensive repair. A few stitches at the most, but no serious damage. "What were you thinking?"

"You're the one who tackled him, by yourself, started this whole mess."

"He was about to plunge that knife somewhere much more dangerous than just your arm, you know."

Apparently that hadn't occurred to Sherlock, who stilled, eyes large, and after a moment, swallowed hard and whispered, "No, I didn't." As he held out his arm, he stared at it quietly. "How did I miss that?"

Though he was relieved that the wound was not more serious, he did have some work to do, and though he also wanted to really lay in to Sherlock for his bloody stupidity, he was not about to get into it yet. "You're okay, let's get it cleaned up so I can have a look."

"Does it need to go to the hospital?" Sherlock asked quietly, in a rapid-fire sentence. His voice was tight. "Because I'd rather not."

"I know." He didn't think so, but wasn't about to say one thing and have something else happen. "Come on, you. Up you get."

The first aid kit was passable, and John cleaned it and then evaluated the small gash for approximation. Greg had only taken one look at it, shrugged and chuckled, and declared, "Oh, yeah. Stitches."

At which point Sherlock stared straight at John, waiting, eyes imploring. John stared right back, nodded once. "If you'd rather, I can suture this at home."

A single nod in reply.

Irritated, curtly, Greg gestured and then stood with his hands on his hips, looking at them both. "Remember, when I first brought you along, do you recall the part about stay close to me at all times?" He pointed directly at Sherlock. _"Do you?"_

"He was getting away, I had to --"

"No, what you had to do was follow orders. I'm presuming you simply went off on your own, and John followed because he had no choice. And thank god he did, yeah? You risked entirely too much."

John was not looking to have Sherlock scolded. Or more closely, he wanted to make sure he was all right and then _he_ wanted to be the one doing the scolding. "Can we table this to another time, please? I do need to get this taken care of." Greg toned down. "He was wrong, we all know it, and I wasn't close enough to him to prevent it. I assure you, _that_ won't happen again."

"Damn right."

"I should remind you, though," John said, "we did actually get him. So that should count for something."

"Oh, and it does, and the department is grateful for that, don't get me wrong. But," he paused, "and this is a big deal, I need to know that you're going to obey me. It's for your safety, and everyone else. Your actions put John in danger, and the rest of the team, too."

"Yeah, but," Sherlock said, quietly, but with a louder tone to his voice, "we still got him." There was the hint of a giggle, then a bit more, and then for some reason, the three of them ended up laughing briefly.

So the first aid kit had been put to good use - a temporary gauze bandage, silk tape - and John seemed pleased that the cut, for all the blood, was not bigger. "Couple sutures, you'll be good as new."

Sherlock still looked a little worried. "And you have them?" John had finished with the bandage, stowed the kit back in Greg's car, and looked up at Sherlock. "At home?" he clarified.

"I do. I might even have something to numb it with, maybe."

"That's fine, I can ..." he let the sentence trail again. "It's okay. Either way."

The cab ride on the way home was mostly quiet, Sherlock holding a bit of pressure on his arm. Mrs. Hudson's flat, thankfully, was quiet for the night. Explaining the blood on John's shirt sleeves and Sherlock's coat would have been awkward if not upsetting for her.

"Have a seat," John said, flipping on the light over the kitchen table. "You've had stitches before?"

"Probably not sober ones."

"It'll have to clean it first. A little local anaesthetic. The gash is small, so it shouldn't be too bad."

"How long since you've done this?" he asked, watching John obtain his bag.

John froze, turned back to Sherlock, let his hands shake violently with the bag, the contents rattling a bit as he trembled, perseverated, made sure Sherlock was watching his rhythmic, repetitive arm movements and hand tremors. "Let me get a bit more caffeine, settle this down some before coming at you with a needle."

"Har har." There was a small smirk on Sherlock's face, at the end of his lips. "You're not funny at all."

He set the bag down, calmly, hands of course perfectly calm. "How much does it matter, it's me, or the A&E, or a significant scar." John knew Sherlock was expressing his anxiety, and gentled. "You can trust me to take care of you. And to answer, not that long actually, couple months. But I could have sewn a quilt the size of a small planet for all the sewing and suturing in the army."

"I don't care about a quilt."

"Sewed someone's ear back on once."

"A bit more interesting, anyway. Just," Sherlock hesitated, "don't hurt me."

"A little numbing medicine, it'll be fine, bring the edges together, stop the bleeding. I'll have you fixed right up soon."

"Seems to me you should just be able to glue this. Isn't that what most surgeons do these days?"

"Dermabond is only good on certain areas, and definitely not on the part of your wrist that bends like this. And especially not for someone like you who plays the violin. This is an area that would open with stress, the glue wouldn't hold well. Not here anyway."

"Well, then can you make me a lightning bolt for a scar?"

John glanced up from where he was seated across from him, Sherlock's arm extended toward him over a towel. He delivered a glare, a raised eyebrow, and a soft snicker. "No."

"Pity, and I thought you were supposed to be _good._ "

"Making a lightning bolt would require more cutting, by the way. The goal is no scar not more scars." They both looked at the cut again, as it had started to ooze with the handling, with John's cleaning it. A slow, trickling crimson rivulet coursed down, dripping into the towel.

John wiped down the table, drew up the lidocaine as local anaesthesia, set out some supplies, washed his hands again. A clean towel, a last minute confirmation. "You're sure you're okay here?"

"If you spent more time suturing and less time asking if I was okay we'd be done by now."

"Bit of a pinch, here, a sting, and some burning," John said without preamble, the small gauge needle of the lidocaine syringe in his hand piercing into the open cut. Sherlock sucked in a breath at the sting. "Little more, just to make sure," John said, withdrawing the syringe slightly and angling differently. He picked up a sterile four-by-four, blotted, watching the skin blanch as it was supposed to, the oozing beginning a little more initially with the medication.

"Yow," Sherlock breathed quietly. "You're not kidding. You said numb, not _fire ants_."

"I actually said burning. Numb takes a few minutes." With clenched teeth, Sherlock hissed a few times, watched John watch him. "And I did tell you, a sting and a burn, remember?"

Sherlock seemed to be slightly more comfortable after another minute, took a deep breath again, and raised a haughty eyebrow at John. "You realise, when you tackled him tonight, that had he rolled differently, you could have crashed through the weaker spot on that roof, or plain rolled off the edge had he flailed that direction?"

"You realise, you had a crazy lunatic coming at your back with a blade that could have _ended_ you?"

"Yeah, well, there's always something."

"Okay, let's do this, won't take long. Hold nice and still, look away if you want," John began, the curved needle held poised in his fingers, needle driver hovering just barely over the gash.

"What are you kidding? Look away? I want to _watch_."

"Suit yourself."

"I'd better not see you break sterile technique."

"I don't break sterile technique." He'd always paid attention to that, every single time. His wound infection rates had always been non-existent to as low as possible. "And, well, you do realise your skin is not exactly sterile." John studied the wound edge, cautioned again, "Big pinch here," and there was silence again as he placed the first of what would end up being six simple, interrupted sutures. He glanced up at Sherlock after the first one to find him pale, eyes closed, head turned away. "First one's in," he said softly. "You're doing great."

"Never mind about me." As he threatened, Sherlock was watching intently. "Pay attention to what you're doing."

"So," John said, needle sliding in again as he ignored Sherlock's fussing, "any lessons learned tonight? I mean, other than the don't mess with Greg Lestrade one, because I don't think he's going to tolerate that again. Anything about this case?"

"I can't help but think the man was confessing, whatever he was saying. Pity there was no translator."

"Well, it certainly wasn't a middle eastern tongue, not that I would have understood it, but I might have recognised it."

"Maybe instead of studying poisonous houseplants, I should consider taking up Russian." It had been a couple of days since he'd tried to make a simple syrup out of a philodendron. John had vehemently refused him obtaining foxglove and a few other bits of vegetation that Sherlock had wanted to order.

"Perhaps you could study a book about self control, and the folly of chasing criminals without appropriate backup."

"I think I'm going to ask Lestrade for a permit to carry."

"God no." Tug, snip, trim. Another suture brought tight, close, the edges approximating evenly as John worked. 

"Next time you're back at your flat, you could bring your revolver here for me."

Though John did have a weapon there, he couldn't imagine how Sherlock could possibly have known that. "A couple more here, keep holding nice and still." The sutures were completed, and John taped a small dressing on Sherlock's forearm. "Good as new, just about."

Sherlock looked, touched the edges of the tape, wriggled his fingers and thumb, investigating sensation and movement, probably, John thought. "Almost makes it completely worth it."

“That was pretty amazing, all said.” John couldn't help but agree, though he was quick to add, "But dangerous, so remember that we got really lucky tonight."

"You thrive in a tense setting. It excites you." Sherlock lowered his sleeve over the dressing, cradled his arm in the other one to rest it.

"Surgery, the army, a war deployment. Not a far stretch. An exciting vocation." John agreed with that too, remembering the excitement of trauma surgery, the fast pace, the split second decisions. "It was a season. Good riddance."

"Not entirely," Sherlock said, with a small smile. "You miss it. Desperately."

"Everything has it's cost, yeah?" The supplies had been cleaned up, the towel folded, and John knew Sherlock was not being as serious as he, but he still needed to say it. "You've paid your dues for where you are now. And you should remember the lessons." Resisting the urge to rub his hand over his own shoulder wound, he mentioned it anyway. "I've certainly paid mine too."

"Care to share?"

"Not especially. You, with the scars on your back?"

"Mission gone sour, helping Mycroft, actually." Sherlock told John briefly about that particular overdose, Mycroft's encouragement and not-so-gentle persuasion that Sherlock needed to do something productive, be involved in something useful. He explained that he'd ended up doing a few miscellaneous jobs for his brother, until that one that had gone badly - the capture unplanned, the work unpredictable, the unforeseen variable. "So the mission, I was only supposed to listen, get information, and it was going well, until ..."

"Until what?" John cued a short while later, his hand having already come out to touch and hold Sherlock's arm. "Until something happened."

"I accidentally said too much. Pointed something out. It did, uh, not go over well. Really pissed one of them off. Ended up kind of cross-tied, there was a whip ..."

John attempted to keep his breathing even, his voice soothing. "Oh god, Sherlock, I'm so sorry."

A wan smile. "The really sad part, what I never told Mycroft, was that I got to a point where I insulted him again, hoping he'd ... end it." An embarrassed moment of eye contact. "End me."

"Thank god he didn't."

"I remember the hopelessness pretty vividly." A small brow furrow, a pause as Sherlock swallowed. "Harder to remember the pain."

"Protective. It's a good thing." He could well recall that there had been excruciating, severe pain himself, the shoulder, the dropped lung, the fractured ribs. To quantify it now was impossible. "It's good that we can't remember it."

"You too?"

"Something like that, yes."

"What happened to your shoulder, John?"

John said quietly, "I got shot." Sherlock seemed quite ready to fuss, launch another series of questions, press for more information, and John shook his head. "Please just leave it. It was a long time ago. The specifics don't matter --"

"Yes they do."

 _Of course they do,_ John agreed inwardly. _They were life-changing, defining moments._ "-- but trust me when I can say I sympathise with what you're describing."

"Oh?"

"Including the ... " John searched for a word, settling on, "the despair." Sherlock sat, pensive. "The important thing is, you get through it. You don't stay there. Neither of us did." Though Sherlock didn't answer, John could see him weigh it, agree. "That's not going to stay numb long. Do you want something mild for pain?"

"Can I have something strong?" A glint in his eye, Sherlock poked at the bandage, lightly over the covered wound.

"You did hear the actual question I posed." John smiled at his patient, who seemed less upset than earlier. "Something _mild_ for pain?"

"Mild, yes, I heard you. Boring. And no." The glint was still there. "But I think I might have nightmares tonight. After the, you know, _ordeal_." Insincerity dripped from his words. "You should probably, as you'd done a few times previously, stay pretty close to me tonight."

"Maybe I should take the couch, instead. So you can, you know, learn to manage this on your own." Neither of them were threatening anything or doing much more than asserting their opinions.

"I know you're interested. Very interested. Attracted. The thrill excites you."

"The thrill."

"I think deep down, you'd like to stay on with me, on a whole new level, crime scenes, a bit of unpredictable behaviour." Sherlock had commandeered the conversation. "It would be exciting."

John swallowed hard, holding himself as carefully as possible under Sherlock’s bright-eyed scrutiny. “And how did you reach this - rather unfounded or farfetched - opinion?”

“It’s not unfounded. I know. I read you, and I can tell.” There was a knowing smirk about Sherlock’s features, and John was reminded again, as he looked at him how far he’d come. The gaunt, hollow, skeletal appearance of so many weeks ago had been long replaced with careful chisel, more meat, less hollow. A _Joie de vivre._

"Even if it were true," and John tried hard to mask the emotion, the tell that would give his interest away, "it's rather hard to sustain long term. Nor is it completely healthy in a ..." He hesitated, the word on the tip of his tongue but he was reluctant to speak it initially. "... relationship."

The vibrance and sparkle, the colour in Sherlock's complexion was not only healthy looking but affirming. Sherlock lifted his head, still watching John, eyes moving slowly from head to toe. “I would be quite interested in pursuing that aspect of you.” There was an imperious gesture. “Hand me my mobile.”

"I beg your pardon?" John asked, incredulous at Sherlock's demand.

"My mobile."

Smiling at Sherlock's cluelessness, John chuckled again. “Get it yourself. You know better than to order me around.”

"I'm injured."

"Not that much. Still have two working legs, full use of one arm."

The raised brow, and Sherlock stared. There was a quite amused smile, then, and a sparkle in his eye. "You know, if you ever wanted to pursue, you know, in a relationship where you have all the control, power, you'd probably find it quite fulfilling."

"Is that so."

"If you know what I mean."

John said nothing, let his smirk convey his knowledge of exactly what Sherlock was hinting at.

"Surely you've heard of it, dominant/submissive, that sort of thing. You'd likely prefer to be dominant. Aftercare, you'd likely enjoy as well. It suits your caretaker, nurturing tendencies."

"God please stop it."

"I think you'd --"

"Sherlock. This is just ... not on. Okay? We should not be talking about --"

"My mobile."

"No."

"For all I know, you've already done all of that. Little power dynamics in a relationship. But if you haven't, it would suit you."

"We are not talking about this."

"Actually, I think we are. You are all about power dynamics. I joked about it that one time, when I called you power hungry. But you are absolutely intrigued by it."

"Being dominant with a partner?" Although John had indeed never been in a formal D/S relationship of that type, the dominant personality did come rather naturally. And he had, at times, found it thrilling, the times it had come into play, so to speak. Caretaking too, came quite naturally, and was a perfect outlet for his skill set and interest.

++

The soldier in front of John moaned again as John pushed his chest against the back of the other man. The deserted office, canvas walls, just the two of them, hearing the wind and the sand and the sounds of Afghanistan at night. John could feel his chest swell as another sound came from the man's chest, a sound of pleasure, of anticipation. One of John's hands held both of the other man's wrists together up over his head, John's other hand hanging tightly to the belt, gripping fatigues tightly at the waist. One knee wedged between the other man's knees, shoving them apart slightly.

"You like that?"

Another moan.

"Answer me."

"Yes."

"Yes, what?" John growled low as he pressed in again, feeling the excitement in front of him as the inhalation between John's body and the wall was drawn in, ribs expanding against him.

"Yes sir."

"Don't let it happen again." John let go of the man's clothing, twined his fingers into the short-cropped hair to ease the man's head back against John's shoulder. "You understand me?"

"Of course, sir." The growly voice seemed a bit fearful. "Captain."

Immediately, John let go of everything, chuckling to himself. They turned a bit toward each other, then, still touching and very warm. Two broad smiles, two stubbled jaws, thriving on tension and seeking an outlet. "My shift ends at midnight. See you over at the bar?"

"You can count on it." A shared, intense kiss, another quiet laugh. "I think I know a place for later, too. Just the two of us." The breath John then exhaled was shaky, full of suppressed electricity, the grin broader as he considered the possibilities for the evening.

"Perfect."

++

Sherlock swung his long legs off the chair where he'd crossed them, stood up to retrieve his mobile. John watched, amused, as he fired off a rather quickly worded text. "I can follow orders. Give me another one."

"Because you're such a natural submissive? You're not, actually. Hard to imagine, that." Two sets of chuckles then, and John shook his head at the very thought. "No thanks."

"Giving orders, bending someone's will excites you too, might be fun to do a little exploring together."

"The only exploring we are going to do is ..." John was ready to gesture at the case files still in a stack.

Sherlock made a face, shook his head, and barked a laugh as something occurred to him. "Though you'll need to carefully decide about the issue of consensual restraint."

The quiet gasp from John was as muffled as he could manage. "What?"

Sherlock's eyes positively twinkled. "Because I've been told that should be off the table completely for me." Indeed, weeks ago, Sherlock had shared about being held down during an intimate moment and the resultant negative reactions it had evoked. "Though I might like ..."

"Stop, Sherlock. There's no relationship, you're talking nonsense."

"Nonsense? They why did it excite you so much? When I suggested it, what was the first thing that popped into your head?"

John kept quiet for what seemed a long silence. "Nothing. Because that's not what you and I are doing."

"Try me. What would you like?" The rich timbre of his lower voice register had all the oozing sensuality that John could imagine. It rumbled in Sherlock's throat, reverberated in John's chest, lower. It was almost as if the air had been suddenly stilled in the room, waiting, prodding, demanding. 

"Boundaries, Sherlock. We've had this discussion before."

"I know you have too many ethics to cross boundaries with a patient, but that’s fine.”

“Fine, how? What do you mean?”

"Mycroft will probably be here within the hour to fire you.”

“What?! Why would you say that?”

Sherlock held up and then jiggled his mobile. “I sent a text to Mycroft asking him to terminate your employment immediately.”

_"What?"_

"To fire you."

“Did you tell him why?”

“I didn’t need to. I’m sure he knows.”

“You had no right.”

“Oh, come. It’s not like you need the money.”

“I’m warning you, Sherlock,” John began. _"What were you thinking!?"_

The imperious wave of his hand was back. “For gods sake, I’m better, the acute phase is over. You would have been bored within another three days.”

“I don’t think you could possibly bore me.” John was shocked but regaining his speech. "This is not about me, it's about your recovery.

“I did you a favour.”

“You should have discussed it with me first.”

“Close one door, open another. Do keep up, John.”

++

Mycroft indeed was in the sitting room there on Baker Street approximately forty-three minutes later. He looked completely professional, detached, and undisturbed by the late hour.

"I have had a request."

"So I've been told."

Mycroft seemed unruffled. "Is there grounds for me to dismiss you?" He faced John, asked the direct question.

"No."

"Is it a good idea, for any reason?" His brow raised, a curious puzzled expression on his face.

"No."

"Is Sherlock ready to be ..." and here he hesitated, gestured at John, at the room.

"Discharged?" John finished for him. "Not yet. We're close."

"But not yet?" Mycroft angled his head askance, glanced at Sherlock. "Not tonight, in your opinion?"

"No."

To his brother, Mycroft said, "Request denied."

"You never planned on doing it, did you. Firing him." Sherlock's eye narrowed unhappily at his brother.

"Only if something had gone on, and I would have been able to tell immediately." He smirked a bit. "I needed to see you both in person to determine that." Pointedly he looked steadily at John. "Not that I would specifically have a problem with it, as I told you once before."

"I am not having this discussion." John stood, ending the conversation tangent before it got even more uncomfortable. "I'm calling it a night. Perhaps Sherlock can tell you all about why he's injured tonight." John sighed a little, looked at them both before taking a step toward the bedroom.

"Oh yes," Mycroft said, tone snippy. "I should like that, I think, so go on Sherlock."

"Piss off."

"Oh, and Dr. Watson?" Mycroft said, an intense clip to his words.

John paused, then turned to face his employer, shoulders squared. "Yes?"

Mycroft let a small, knowledgeable smile appear then. "Your role in keeping Sherlock safe tonight did not go unnoticed." Of course, John realised, Mycroft was keeping tabs on both of them. "Thank you."

John could feel his teeth clench. "I certainly didn't do it to be thanked."

"Never-the-less, a takedown like that could have injured your shoulder again." A knowing smirk, then coolness again, and Mycroft seemed quietly pleased with himself. "I should hope you at least emerged unscathed?"

At that, Sherlock got up as well, stomped into the kitchen muttering something about mold and ash and burning something of Mycroft's. "Seven stitches, was it?"

What John really wanted to say was what Sherlock had already said - piss off. Instead, he angled his head, muttered, "Six," and kept his journey to the bedroom. Of course he'd already known.

++ 

Sherlock actually didn't come to bed that night, and John found him asleep on the couch when he awoke early, concerned. His hands were tucked in alongside his chest as if he'd quite a chill, his feet curled up under his thighs, toes tucked between the cushions. John drew a blanket over him, went to put on tea.

 John took a silent seat in the room and was halfway done his tea before Sherlock spoke.

 "You had a chance to get out. Remove these bloody boundaries you keep harping about." John was midway to a sip, stopped. "You could have let it end."

"That's not what's best here."

"I don't particularly care about what's best." Wide awake and aggravated, Sherlock shrugged, moved to the bookcase, withdrew a bound volume with something blase as a title, opened it to find the pages hollowed out. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and lit one up quick as you please.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Absolutely not."

The man stood, eyes closed, took a long draw in, his face rapt in pleasure. The inhale, however, was abruptly ended by a small coughing fit, and John's legs had already carried him over. He grabbed the cigarette, extinguished it in a small empty dish nearby. The lighter he set on the mantle, but the cigarettes he carried to the sink, turned on the water, and drowned them.

"Cruel. Wasteful."

"Helpful," John corrected. "For your lungs especially."

"Then distract me with something else." The slight quirk of his brow, the lopsided grin that John had grown to love, the warm sparkle of tenderness in his eye was back. It was alluring and sensual and I want you and _I want you right now._

"No."

"No?"

"First of all, I'm still here as your physician, consultant, whatever term you'd like. So both of us need to respect that."

"I tried to fix that last night," he said flatly, his whole face screaming that he was bored. "And second?"

"That's not how relationships work."

"Relationship? Who said anything about a relationship?"

"So you're suggesting just a casual affair, a means to _distract you_?" He punctuated that last bit with air quotes. 

"God you're annoying."

John went for a subject change. "How's your arm?"

"Sore. Not as bad as I suspected it would be."

"I'd like to take a look at it a bit later."

"I want tea."

"Get it yourself." 

"I kind of see that as something my _personal physician_ should take care of for me." 

"And funny, look what happens when someone gives you an order."

"That's different."

"Seems the same to me. Do you think it matters in the military if someone agrees with the order they've been given or not? No, it gets followed no matter what." John gentled. "So your argument doesn't hold water."

"Probably doesn't hold tea either. Of which I would like a cup. And you did ruin my cigarettes."

"You know where I stand. This is probably something you should have considered before you tried to have me terminated."

"God you're hot when you're angry."

"I'm not _that_ angry. However, your penchant to seek out conflict and deliberately provoke someone to anger is concerning."

"Of course I know that." Sherlock made a terribly skeptical face, settled into the couch. "It's a skill I've been perfecting my whole life." Absently, he picked up a book, thumbed through the pages, then tossed it onto the floor, where it rustled before thumping onto its back. There was a charming, full out, deadly smile, eyes crinkling, mouth just faintly broader grinning on the left, and with an utterly appealing voice, he said, "Would you like to join me here, get comfortable?"

"I'm good here, ta."

++

That night, in the darkness, John had brought up once again the three good things. They'd exchanged a few ideas, and Sherlock shared with him an excellent article he'd read that day about the state of the honeybee across the globe, the threat to it as well as the strides that were being made. It had been a few weeks since the class they'd taken together, and Sherlock talked about the history of his interest. It had started as a kid during one of their family vacations and a gardener on the rented estate who showed him actual hives. "I hope you get to own a hive, one day, then."

"Bring your epi-pen when you come to visit me."

"Of course. 'Night."

Once he'd been deeply asleep, he'd been dreaming of bees, so real in the dream that he could swear he could actually hear them buzzing. Relentlessly. And close to his head. He came to a state of consciousness wondering if Sherlock had managed to get bees into the flat.

His sensorium cleared as he realised it was his mobile, vibrating in the middle of the night, annoying and alarming and almost always a bad omen, those middle of the night rings. He answered, quiet and with a sense of dread. Sherlock seemed to be still asleep there along the edge of the mattress.

Instead, there was the quiet intensity of words, of heavy breathing through emotion, tears, in the sweet young voice of his sister who had never handled a stressful situation all that well.

"J-j-j-john, it's mum!" It was broken, but that part was clearly understandable.

Sherlock had turned over in bed, and was in the process of leaning up on an elbow. John held out his hand reassuringly to Sherlock, gesturing for him to relax, stay put, and he quickly took the phone out to the sitting room, turned on a light. "Harry, yeah, tell me again." Rather than offer her platitudes, he waited, listening to her breathing, her attempts to calm herself.

A few words came out, including, "couldn't wake her up" "brain bleed" "breathing tube" and "surgery".

John pieced a few details together, his mind whirling. Harry had said she'd gone to visit their mum for only a weekend, had barely arrived when this had happened. John himself hadn't been in touch with his mum for a while, the rift between he and his da painful and never addressed, the distance both literal and figurative. His usual times to call were when something had happened, a lifechange (mum, I got shot and getting sent home), or on her birthday. 

Mind whirling, he considered quickly a whole bunch of urgent details. His mum's status, blood pressure, deficits, and prognosis. His contract of course, included handling of emergencies, that he would attempt to find a replacement or offer other suggestions for support in the event he had a personal emergency. "Harry, listen. I have a few things to pull together." He could sense before even looking that Sherlock was standing in the hallway. "I'll be there soon as I can." She was a few hours away, a train ride and a few connections. He cautioned her that things could go sour quickly, that she should keep her phone close, and update him if she could. He made a few notes as to the hospital she'd been taken to in Scotland, the name of her surgeon, the few details about the CT scan findings that Harry could remember.

The mobile disconnected. John and Sherlock's eyes met, held, locked. "She going to be okay?" Obviously Sherlock had heard enough.

A brief shake of John's head. "Intracranial haemorrhage, history of small stroke few years back. Neurosurgeon's evaluating now."

"That was your sister."

"Yes. And Harry's a mess."

"I'm sorry."

John looked at Sherlock a few moments, their eyes connected, sad, concerned. Gently, John said, "You realise I have to go."

A small nod, a serious expression, sorrowful eyes. "I know."

"You're going to be fine."

John had already, without conscious thought, moved close to Sherlock, and took his hand, squeezed tight. His mind was eight steps ahead about his mum. Craniotomy, evacuation of a haematoma, persistent deficits, rehab, pain, suffering, reduction in quality of life. If she even survived it.

In the morning, there would be phone calls, packing, making plans, travel arrangements, and saying goodbye temporarily to Sherlock. Sherlock's brother to notify. Sutures to be removed in a couple of days. He would see if Molly could come, and possibly Greg could be persuaded to check in more regularly. Mrs. Hudson, hopefully, could be more visible too. Sherlock, there in his loose pyjama pants and his tee shirt, his sleepy eyes and tousled curls, reached his long arms around John to pull him close, tucking his chin overtop of John's blond head. Seeking comfort and giving comfort, a circle of connections. There was a lump in John's throat as he relaxed a bit into Sherlock's embrace. Despite the late hour, John's mobile began vibrating again in his hand. His stomach sank, thinking it was Harry again with an update, more bad news.

It wasn't Harry.

Mycroft.

++

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, wow. It has not been read/re-read-re-read as my usual, along with the eight million edits and additions. I toned it down this time to maybe only half that. I'll be editing a bit after posting as I always do, but please let me know gently if there's something blatant.
> 
> I had to give John just one more medical thing to deal with before summoning him away, so sutures in the flat on Baker Street seemed a good idea. 
> 
> Sherlock will be fine.
> 
> The next chapter has been mostly written for months. I can hardly wait to share it with you.


	19. Summoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John returns to London. A shorter chapter where Mycroft lays some cards on the table, and John finds something out...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should add a little bit of warning that this chapter is not an easy one for Dr. Watson.
> 
> I also feel like I want to let you know that it'll be okay. John is strong. He has handled challenging things before, and he will handle this. He will handle it _well._

John leaned his head back in the train car, the seat uncomfortable, the slightly jolting track making it hard to fall into a deeper sleep, and closed his eyes again.

It had been a grueling, exhausting trip as one week stretched into two, and then more. A few days longer, medical decisions to consider, Harry struggling on every level, hard conversations, and affairs to handle. It had been nearly three weeks, but he was finally on his way back to London.

His mum now rested six feet under, her final few weeks a rollercoaster of doing well, making progress, a setback, challenging blood pressure instability, concern about recurrence of bleeding in her brain, a recovery of sorts, at least to the point that she could talk and eat again. Confusion had set in over the night times, and so Harry stayed with her during normal, day hours while John took the night shift. Not every night was bad, thankfully. There had been clarity one night toward the end, a touching middle of the night conversation with John who sat tenderly, comforting, an anchor at her bedside. She was able to express her wishes to be allowed to die peacefully if it ever came to that, no more surgery, no tubes, no heroic measures.

A few days later, as they were starting to discuss rehab and therapy, devastating changes. She developed stroke-like symptoms, rapid onset and profound this time, global aphasia, completely non-responsive. She'd been alone, found by a nurse who'd come to check on her. The doctor was summoned, family notified, repeat imaging obtained. Within an hour of finding out the CAT scan results - early signs of cerebral oedema, midline shift, cortical atrophy consistent with chronic and acute cerebrovascular disease - a difficult discussion ensued. John, Harry, and the physician of record, all in agreement that Mrs. Watson's end-of-life care was to be comfort measures only. Her IV was removed, monitors discontinued, nothing by mouth. She was discharged from the hospital to a hospice setting, and a few days vigil began, a palliative care journey of another kind entirely.

++

Harry had been an absolute mess in the beginning. John arrived to find her three sheets to the wind, vacillating between giggling and teary-eyed, angry and relieved. A few hours later, she swore up and down that these were the first drinks she'd had in a very long time, and that she had that part of her life under control.

Still, she argued about ridiculous things in the first few days after John arrived, fussed that John was overstepping, complained that John wasn't doing enough, and particularly irritated that the doctors, nurses, and everyone else including housekeeping seemed to prefer to talk with level-headed, calm and rational _John_ as opposed to herself.

"And it's like you all speak a bloody different language, Johnny."

"And that's why I sit and explain things to you. Always. Mum, too." Her intracranial pressure readings were down a day or so after surgery, she was more awake, and certainly aware that her children were both there. While Harry talked at her, John sat at her bedside, held her hand, and spoke slowly and gently, updating her regularly about what had happened and what the plan was, including her in their banter as well as the mundane. "She needs that, you know."

"You talk down to me, like I'm an idiot."

"I just want to make sure you underst --"

"But it's not fair, I was here when it happened, and then you swoop in and ..." John had taken her by the hands, pulling her resistant form against him, his arms wrapping around her, growling, "... and save the _bloody day!_ " She twisted and pushed against him, not really meaning it (and thankfully not fighting dirty as she'd done when they were younger). He didn't give up on the hug, knowing his sister, and in some ways, what she needed from him.

"You did all the right things, Harr. And you were here, when mum needed you most." He touched at the back of her hair, could feel the fight leaving, her resistance beginning to ease, her emotions rendering her quiet, withdrawn. "Remember," he said easily, "when I first came home, injured, upset. You were there for me too, when I needed you most. You were a rock for me."

"I remember you slept on the floor. And had nightmares."

"Bloody awful." He tried to be light. "I know I said thanks before, but I could not have managed without you, then." Another minute, a few circles gently over her back, and there was a shudder, a quiet sob, warm tears dampening the front of his shirt. It ended up cathartic, for the two of them.

Harry's moods had stabilised somewhat, and once things had settled into more of a routine, she was easier to deal with. The ups and downs of each day, neurologic assessments waxing and waning, decisions about her care, and their mum seemed to be slowly improving.

Harry had been resolved. "I'm glad we've had a good couple of days, the three of us." It had been true, with Mrs. Watson talking a bit, eating, smiling with the non-paretic side of her face. Her speech, though slurred, had been clear enough that both of her children'd had good, helpful, no-regrets kinds of conversations.

Until the big change, they day no one could really wake her up, after which she never opened her eyes again, showed no sign of responsiveness. It was as if she had already left them.

And now she was gone, her passing had been peaceful, her breathing changing during those last hours and days, slowing, eventually the markedly abnormal Cheyne-Stokes respirations, breathing deeply mixed with period of slowing, the apneic events lengthening until it had finally stopped altogether. The final expression on her face, pleasant and relaxed in a way John hadn't seen her for many, many years.

No regrets, he reminded himself. They'd made amends, best they could. There was no way to change the past, just learn to deal with the present.

The train rounded a curve, sounded a whistle. Closer and closer to London. Home.

++

Staying in contact, and not being invasive while doing it, was something John struggled a bit with what he wanted and what he knew was a better option. In the beginning when John had first left, there had been a flurry of texts.

John to Greg, a few variations thereof spread over a couple of days, **please keep an eye on him, can you try to stop by or make contact once a day, even if it's just an email, thanks mate!**

Sherlock to John (though only twice, both times complaining about no one else's tea being remotely drinkable).

Molly and John exchanged quite a few in the beginning, going both ways discussing actual legitimate needs such as sutures, nutrition, and nicotine patch monitoring.Most of them casual, as John was just hoping for someone to keep an eye on Sherlock.  **Can you please check in with him when you get a minute, just a friendly hello, and keep me updated, thanks!**

Mobile service was sketchy at times, and the one time earlier John had tried to actually ring Sherlock, the connection was staticky, rough, and kept freezing. He'd just wanted to assure Sherlock that he'd arrived at his final destination. He didn't want him to have any additional worries about traveling or uncertainty as to John's whereabouts. Leaving had been difficult for them both, of that John was sure. Though Sherlock seemed all right and assured John that he would manage, John still had qualms about the transition. Texts seemed the way to go, and John tried to keep them low-key. He would have greatly preferred more communication from Sherlock and those close to him, but he knew he'd set him up as well as he could given the circumstances.

Mycroft had come to the flat early that next morning, before John left, and they'd had a brief discussion before John'd had to get on the road. Mycroft assured him that he would take care of things.

John had sent a few texts, regardless, to Sherlock:

**Hey, my breakfast alarm just went off, made me wonder how you're doing today. John**

There was only a thumbs up response to that one. John took the hint and did not answer immediately, though it resonated with him all day, what it meant, what it could have meant, what is probably didn't mean, if he was doing all right. After what he felt was a respectable time between texts, he replied,  **You know, as I said before heading out, you can text me anytime. I might not be in London at the moment, but I am always available for you if you need anything. John**

 **I know that. And I will. Thanks**.  **SH**

It seemed a bit dismissive, and John could feel the vibes cautioning him against fostering the dependency between them further, and he followed up that text with a short one of his own. **Keep in touch. You're ready. John**

Much of his time was spent either with his mum, her doctors, or with Harry, so he didn't actually have much time available to worry too much, or try to open conversations with anyone. He did, initially, try to stay in touch with Mycroft, knowing he would be the most involved in the short term, anyway. Responses were unpredictable and almost never immediate, however, if there was one at all. The one-sided conversation interspersed with the occasional reply was, in John's opinion, rather inadequate. In some ways, he was grateful initially for the flurry of concerns and distractions surrounding his mum. Never-the-less, he worried when he had that spare moment.

John to Mycroft: **You'll let me know if you have any questions about anything, schedule, any work-related things he's supposed to be doing for DI Lestrade? John**

**I will assume no news is good news, then. John**

**Just a reminder that Sherlock's sutures should come out today or tomorrow latest. Let me know. John**

The following morning, a close-up image of a healing, suture-less dark red forearm scar arrived in John's mobile. He'd already heard briefly from Molly that she'd removed them without incident and that he seemed to be doing all right. The photo from Mycroft, however, was reassuring.

**Thanks for the photo, wound looks clean. John**

**Are things going okay? You know, it would probably not kill you to actually answer me one of these days. Not hearing anything is frustrating. John**

**He seems to be healing, eating, working. Driving people to distraction. MH**

**Restating my offer of assistance, if I can be of any help from a distance. John**

**I will be in touch if that is the case. MH**

**Does that mean back off, or piss off? John**

**Sorry for the last text delete pls, my mum's had a setback. I should not have taken that out on you, my apologies. John**

**Yes, I was sorry to learn that your mother needed more cerebral imaging. MH**

John did not respond to that, simply stewed in his amazement at the resources Mycroft utilised to obtain information. 

**Dr. Watson: You have left my brother doing fairly, no, remarkably well and in capable hands. Tend to your own needs. I know how to reach you in the event it becomes necessary. MH**

**I agree, and am trying. John**

**I thought I would have had more time, and did not expect this drastic reason for leaving. John**

**Maybe it's not a bad thing, like ripping off a plaster all at once. John**

**It is ridiculously obvious you didn't plan any of this. Cease your worrying. MH**

John typed the words _piss off_ , erased them, typed them again, his thumb hovering over the send button. God he wanted to.

He deleted that.

**You understand that I have grown to care about him. John**

**Caring is not an advantage. MH**

Despite his intention to not respond immediately, he immediately replied. **I disagree. Caring is what makes it worthwhile. People matter. John**

**Caring in this case seems to be what is making this harder on you both. MH**

**I would like very much to help with this if possible. John**

**He needs to learn to do this without you. MH**

Those words stung, even as John knew them to be true. He vividly recalled the day Mycroft Holmes showed up in his office. The games, and the stories untold, the journey ahead of them all to be full of unexpected twists.

**I understand that. John**

**Do try to minimise contact with him, yeah? MH**

**Wait, what? So is he having a hard time?** He sent that without signing it.

**I dare say that you both are, actually. Wouldn't you agree with that assessment, Dr. Watson? For both of your sakes, please try to minimise contact. Keep me informed of your return. MH**

**As if I need to do that. I'm sure you are keeping close tabs on the situation. John**

**Or on me, to be more exact. I guess I find comfort that you're probably also watching your brother even more closely. John**

**Indeed I am. Still, you might feel better if you let me know when you are returning. MH**

**There is the matter of on-going appointments, Sherlock and I, a few sessions when I return, as we had previously discussed. John**

**Indeed. Attend to your family responsibilities. Trust that I will contact you if needed. MH**

**_Fine._ John  ** John hoped he could hear the sarcasm via text.

**I hope your mother's recovery will be speedy. MH**

**Thanks. Rough road ahead, I fear. John**

++

The train station, the luggage, the cab fare to his flat, all without complication. He'd texted Molly, heard that she'd only attended to Sherlock a couple of times for a few hours in the early days after John'd left. She'd offered to spend the night on the couch as John had encouraged her to do, but it was denied. A few texts with Greg, who commented he was busy as well, but had seen Sherlock fairly regularly. He told John that things from a distance anyway seemed to be going pretty well. He'd linked Sherlock up with Sergeant Donovan a few times (over Sergeant Anderson, who had in fact as he'd threatened, refused to work with him) and that they fussed and sniped at each other but were managing to get the job done regardless.

**So, for real, it's going okay? JW**

**He's doing all right. More serious, more easily ruffled, less people skills with you not around to help him, but yes, all right I suppose. Greg**

**A relief. Thanks for the update. JW**

**I could tell he missed you. I'm sure he'll be glad you're back. Greg**

Another ellipsis. John pondered his options about responding to that. _I missed him too? Thanks for keeping an eye out?_

He settled on, **Clean and sober? JW**

**Far as I can tell, yes. Greg**

**Pints sometime? Would love to hear a bit more, catch up, watch a match maybe. JW**

**Lousy week, schedule full and busy, ring me next week and I'll try? Greg**

**Of course. Thanks for your help. JW**

++

The flat, once the cab'd driven off, was somber and dreary. First, stale air of course, having been shut up for so long, a fine layer of dust. For the familiarity, it was comforting and his exhaustion seemed to escalate. After hanging his coat, he turned to see the unfamiliar, the change, the realisation that his routine was going to be indeed quite different. All of his things from Sherlock's flat were tucked into a corner of the room, neatly stacked supplies, a few boxes, a bag. The cot had been left as well, his clothes, bags, and gear. It made him feel oddly displaced. Trying not to think about it overmuch, he showered, brushed his teeth, and fell into bed only to sleep brokenly, at intervals, listening for the rustling, breathing, or overall status of the man who wasn't even there. The room was too quiet, still. He wondered if, somewhere across London, Sherlock was awake too.

The morning seemed mildly better. Tea, toast, the stack of mostly junk mail, and he took a gander through his emails for potential next clients. Though most of them seemed fairly straightforward, he just couldn't summon up the desire to make contact yet. He unpacked, finding that there were a few unexpected items: The Graveyard Book, and Treasure Island, which they'd never finished. The bottle of Jameson's that he'd included as a lark, on a list of requirements he'd given Mycroft prior to Sherlock's blood transfusion there in the flat on Baker Street.

A few sent text messages:

Sherlock: **I arrived back in London late yesterday. Please let me know what your availability is so that we can set up a few sessions, as we had previously discussed. I hear you're doing well. John**

(no answer)

(still no answer)

(still no answer)

Later that day, he reached out to Mycroft. **I am back in London, as I'm sure you already know. When you see Sherlock, please remind him about our follow-up commitments. John**

**We were sorry to hear about your mother, Dr. Watson. MH**

**Thanks. How are things going? John**

**Fairly well, all things considered. MH**

**I'm waiting to hear from him. Remind him to call my office to set something up. John**

**I'm not sure he will be agreeable. MH**

**The plan was to help with his transition, his return to a new normal** **. Discuss his strategy for sobriety. John**

**And other things, Dr. Watson? MH**

John left that one alone. A short time later, Mycroft sent another text.

**Sherlock is uninterested in further sessions with you as his physician, therefore, I think it would be more beneficial for you to meet with me regarding ongoing support. MH**

**Call my office number to set something up. John**

**I am quite aware you are between patients. MH**

_**Call my office number to set something up.** _

He set his away message, turned his read receipts off, and pocketed his phone. 

++

John was just perusing the mail, his email inbox, tidying up in his actual office, still reluctant to consider another full time client just yet. There had been a few short sessions with a few who liked to stay in touch every few months, a couple of second opinions and some physical assessments that would be used as part of psychiatric clearance exams, a few site visits, some consultations with concerned families and therapists, enough to meet expenses for a bit. He could well hear Sherlock in his mind calling him an idiot, being stubborn for the hell of it, afraid of committing to another patient at the moment. There was an advert for a locum position at a nearby walk-in clinic that sounded worth a second look. Less investment, still using his skills, perhaps a nice temporary break from the usual client and all that went along with that. Reflecting on Sherlock's words, 'you thrive on excitement,' he thought an urgent clinic might occasionally deliver that. It would certainly be rapid turnover, no getting too close, too attached...

Maybe a change though, wasn't a bad idea. He polished up his CV, did a little research on the surgery, its history, the owner, but wasn't quite ready to apply yet. Though he'd loved his time working one on one with patients, he considered that diversifying had its merits too. The word boundaries kept coming to mind. _Yes,_ he agreed to himself _, this would be much different, more distance, and shallow, casual, safer relationships_.

His request for another session seemed to be ignored one day until a text arrived from Mycroft.

Mycroft's office address came through first, then a follow-up text. **Your p** **resence is requested, at your convenience. Are you able to meet? I had suggested that Sherlock contact you for a session, But he remains uninterested and unwilling. Let's call it an exit interview. And I have final payment for services rendered. MH**

John thought about being a stickler about his directive to call his office, opted not to. **Fine.** **If you mean today, I am free after three. JW** He could actually have been free immediately, but had no intention of divulging that to Mycroft, and he still had a few housekeeping things to which he could attend, reports to finalise, binder clips to sort or something equally mission critical. The application for the job he was considering was nearly complete, and he would finish that, answer a few emails in the meantime.

**I will send a car to your office then. MH**

John was ready, the driver silent and efficient, so John arrived punctually, a secretary waving him inside. He'd expected perhaps a hello to Sherlock's brother and then to be shown to a conference room or office where he would be kept waiting by himself only to then be fussed at with an attempt at some guilt and manipulation tactics, and handed a final cheque. Best he was hoping for was an update on how Sherlock was doing, how he was spending his time. He wasn't even convinced he would see Mycroft at all, just as a show of control, of being in charge, bending another person to the whims of various conditions. Part of him looked forward to stomping out, slamming the door, washing his hands of the bloody pair of them.

The PA pointed at a door, that John opened, stepped through with squared shoulders and a stalwart constitution. He was glad for his composure given what was inside the room.

 _Both_ Holmes' were present, waiting for him.

Mycroft, seated behind a desk, tie loosened, waistcoat buttoned, but jacket over his chair. He looked same as always, unruffled, polished, cool, a cynical smile in the making but not quite there. There were personal knick knacks and items of international flavour, a small sculpture and some other accoutrements that looked ridiculously expensive, hand collected, one-of-a-kind. To the side, a larger couch, chair, large screen monitor, coffee table, wet bar. The office smelled of leather and money, sandalwood and a hint of citrus furniture polish.

Sherlock was standing, a bit of a slouch in his posture as he leaned against the wall, near a window across the room. He looked clear, sober, posh, and _fiery_. Clothes were neat, nary a wrinkle, shoes polished, hair casual and trimmed, closely shaven. John thought there was just a bit more bulk to him. The light from the late afternoon picked up the gray-green highlights of his eyes, settled on the curl of his hair, gave him a vibrant, healthy glow. Bright eyes stared back at him, seeing and taking in everything he could, full of energy, an unspoken dare, a challenge. _Zesty._ John wondered at the gloss of the curls in the light the way it caught, whether there was hair product involved. The entirety of the presentation took foundation in rich, supple, gradient mahogany to ebony leather shoes.

_Virile._

Mycroft cleared his throat, and John realised his gaze had settled on Sherlock, stayed there, perhaps a bit overlong. "Final payment, Dr. Watson." An envelope was held out to him, and he crossed the room to take it, and slid it into a trouser pocket without looking at it.

"Thanks. You could have put that in the post, you know." He waited to catch Mycroft's eyes, could see the aloofness, the studied unemotional response, and he turned to see Sherlock again. The pleasant expression was still there, but there was a guarded approach about him that he hadn't noticed before. This was not, John realised, a purely social visit.

Mycroft seemed to study John a few long moments, a stare devoid of much emotion. It felt like a test, a scrutiny, an evaluation that had just been completed and John had somehow fallen short. "Have a seat."

He thought hard about resisting, defying the order or at least pointing out its rude delivery. "Thanks, don't mind if I do." It was as close to a return comment as he was going to get until he could tell what this was all about.

Swiveling slightly in his leather chair, Mycroft opened a drawer, hardware silent, barely breaking eye contact as he did. A manila file folder appeared on the desk, pushed with a long fingered hand - in contrast, Sherlock's were longer, more refined, elegant, he noticed - until it sat, not quite vibrating in front of John. Unmarked. Crisp as if rarely opened. "This should interest you."

John didn't move a muscle, glancing at the file but returning the gaze at Mycroft without speaking.

Another smirk, recognising the delay for simply what it was. "At your leisure, doctor." Half a nod, a broadly brushing flip of the fingers, an incline of the head as if to grant John permission, encouragement, so only then did John reach out, draw it closer, and flip it open.

Inside, quite a few pages, military personnel records, obligatory governmental forms, redtape, and correspondence. The name popped out at John immediately, evoking an unpleasant, visceral reaction, the association strongly negative. File folder of the sergeant, then, the same sergeant who had violated the Afghan boy, whom John had performed surgery on. The sergeant with the attitude, with the... He swallowed hard, turned back to the file, flipping through his MoD forms, service record, biographical data form. "Next page," Mycroft said quietly.

John turned a sheet over to find a court martial report, followed by a dishonourable discharge form, all completely executed. It was signed and dated, John noticed, a few days before his own path had even crossed with Mycroft those weeks ago. He would ponder the timing and what that meant later. Without prompting, he continued into the file. There were a couple of mostly benign, formal, standard letters all marked MI 6 and with various high level signatures, explaining the discharge, requesting signatures, asking for expedited, immediate action. A few handwritten notes. There was a lot of military, official language that seemed to avoid specific details, conveyed very little, and gave no room for misinterpretation.

John's name was not in any of the letters or correspondence, nor was there any specific mention of any details regarding the assault. Conduct unbecoming an officer was the only reason listed for the change in status. The words jumped out, swam a bit on the page, until John blinked them back to clarity.

There were no words at first, no particular emotion, no joy at his consequence. There was sadness, however. On so many levels, the harm done by this man had already happened, and there was no undoing it. "This is a relief. Mostly." John could hear the rawness in his voice, regathered himself, sitting up a bit more. "It would still concern me, though ... He's not employed anywhere near children? Anywhere unsupervised?"

"Oh, he's quite well supervised in the confines of his prison cell," Mycroft explained, though rather cryptically. John didn't much need particulars.

A pursed-lipped, slow, exhale. Away from potential people the man could hurt any longer. "Good to know. A relief," John said, thoughtful. His smile was bittersweet at the deluge of memories even seeing the name of the man. "The misconduct report..." he began, looking intently at Sherlock. They hadn't ever really got around to talking about it.

"It's in there, a bit deeper. I read it," Sherlock said back, sparing John the need to recount the details. "Better than he deserved." Behind Sherlock's hand, which had come up to worry at his lip, John thought he heard the quiet hiss, _"Animal,"_ but he couldn't be sure so he ignored it.

"Justice." John frowned again. "Closure." The misconduct report that John had completed was another page further in the file. John glanced at it, the words and signature haunting, penned before so many changes had occurred. Even his signature seemed innocent, and he reminded himself that he had no idea at the time he signed it what would happen. To any of them.

"Not necessarily for you." A pointed stare, a flicker of a glance and a nod at his shoulder. On cue, the wound twinged, saying _remember me?_

"Or the victim." John stood up then, restless, stressed, unable to stay in the chair and needing to move, some nervous energy to burn off. Posture straight and tall, facing Mycroft, the file where it had been left, still open, between them.

Mycroft cocked his head, slightly disappointed. "You should always read to the end, Dr Watson." The last page of the file, Mycroft opened to, pushed it back. "There's a bit more, thought you would also be relieved to see. Additional changes," and John flipped the file facing him, saw a different name, one he did not recognise, a completed personnel status change record, a letter of voluntary application for retirement.

"I don't know who ..." He stared at the names, birthdates, regiments for a few minutes until it clicked. _"Oh,"_ he breathed. The sergeant's uncle, who had somehow pulled the strings that intercepted the misconduct report, prevented military discipline or retribution against the sergeant, inappropriate protection, falsification of records in all likelihood, suppression of evidence. He'd managed to meddle in affairs not in his jurisdiction, had reassigned John. Voluntarily retired.  _Good._

John lifted his head to find Mycroft staring back at him. "Says here it was voluntary." John watched Mycroft for any sign of any reaction at all. There was absolutely, positively no response whatsoever. "Seems to me there might have been some encouragement." In his peripheral vision, he could see Sherlock watching Mycroft as well. "Which is fine, by the way."

"What are you asking me, Captain?" Mycroft and his bloody use of titles, always intentional, with a purpose.

"Retired, remember? Not asking anything. Saying thank you, in the event it's applicable." He tilted his head, a bit more clarity coming to him. "I'm saying thank you in any event."

Very small, fleeting smirk. "Let's say it was voluntary enough for the official papers." Another steady return of eye contact, then a slight moue of amusement. "I'm not surprised often, as you can imagine. But it was discovered that he'd managed to roadblock some additional paperwork submitted by your former CO. The letter of recommendation that would have awarded you something for your efforts and integrity following your mission, your injury. Military Cross, most likely."

"Roadblocked."

"Deliberately misplaced. Thwarted. Mislaid." A pause in conversation, and John could genuinely feel very little response to that. A career cut short and a medical discharge had effectively closed that part of his life, and he'd thought he'd moved on fairly well. "I am pleased to inform you that the commendation has been filed by now. I don't know what will become of the application."

John smiled, wanly. "I have a hard time believing you don't know, but ..." He shrugged again. "I don't mean to sound ungrateful."

An astute expression, Mycroft nodded. "Unpleasant memories, a nauseating association, I presume." There was a quiet clearing of his throat, and though John didn't turn to look, Mycroft turned slightly to watch Sherlock. "So that's settled. Smart man, your former CO. Kept a copy, and good records."

 _Once you file this, Captain, it'll be out of my hands._ John could still hear him saying it.

"I appreciate the forewarning." John's smile was a little more natural, recalling his leadership, his command. "He did the best he could, my CO. A good man."

Mycroft brushed an idle hand across his forehead. "Seems to me I may have seen his name on the next round of promotions scheduled." There was the faintest hint of a smirk when John turned quickly to look at Mycroft, though no further elaboration was given.

A few additional absolutely irrelevant minutes of conversation followed, and then the Holmes brothers exchanged another glance. John was quieter, still, something on his mind, the ex-sergeants file opening up memories buried, the resolution good but reflective. he seemed a little more edgy inside. Unsettled. The closed folder in his hand, offered back to Mycroft, who did not reach out in return. So John set it, gently, on the corner of the desk, a tap of the finger scooting it awkwardly in Mycroft's direction.  It was not lost on him that, as he'd suspected initially, Mycroft had indeed known about John's experiences, all of them, the events in the military, the assault, the reporting, the injustice of the mission re-assignment. He'd found out about the higher level connection, the misuse of military influence, and then dug even deeper. He had taken care of righting the wrong without immediately revealing to John what he'd done, or even that he knew. It had mattered enough that, apparently, there had been some high level government involvement that had ultimately investigated. More importantly, had intervened, because it was the right thing to do. "Thank you." He held his gaze steady at Mycroft, who gave a brief, tilted nod of his head. Swallowing hard, John thought about restating it, explaining himself, decided it was unnecessary. Thank you was more than adequate.

Mycroft cleared his throat again.

"You should do something about that post nasal drip. I can recommend a good ear, nose, and throat --" When Mycroft shook his head slightly, John stood, assuming that the little meeting was over.

"John, there's something else."

Pregnant pause. Energy swirling, brewing. A sense of foreboding. A rumble, not too far off in the distance.

"Have a seat." John's eyes snapped up at that, annoyed again with the repeated, impolite, imperious demand. This time, though, there was a softening, an amendment. "Please."

John thought about resisting, the rebel in him shaking a mental fist in Mycroft's direction. Instead, he breathed out heavily, choosing his battles again, reconsidered, calmly. He sat.

Laptop on the desk turned toward Mycroft's eagle eye, a few keystrokes, and the large, flatscreen on the wall flickered to life, powered on.

"I did a bit of investigating into your _situation_ over there. Took quite a few weeks. At my request, this was uploaded to my secure server early yesterday."

Part of John wondered if they had a new assignment for him, a challenge, a plea from someone important. Sigh, lean back, casual, reluctant. Guarded. He was half expecting a sales pitch of some sort. Or a request to travel to the area again as a subcontractor. He leaned back in the chair, already planning on a few ways to politely decline whatever request he was about to receive.

A blurry still image appeared, the beginning of a video, pixelated, a few people, upholstered chairs, dark skinned, age indeterminate, four adults and one young adolescent. The focus began to clear, began to resolve.

John stared. _It looked like..._   He blinked. Stared harder. Leaned forward. _The people reminded him of ..._   A frozen moment. _It couldn't be, could it?_ The image sharpened into high quality.

It was.

From across the room, Sherlock's whisper. "John. John?" One continued to stare at the screen, where the video had paused, while the other two in the room watched John. Sherlock murmured, "You all right?"

He would have recognised them anywhere. A semi-circle of chairs, a plain room, an office most likely, something benign, austere, industrial. It was his patient from Afghanistan, the boy Ramin, his parents, and two strangers. Mycroft's finger hovered over the keyboard, watched for John's shock to dissipate a little, that he could pay attention. "This was recorded just a few days ago. You obviously recognise three of them. I asked my agent," and he pointed to one of the men in the video, "to find out what had happened to the boy, and it took us a long time. Thought you might like to hear a bit of an interview. You'll hear the explanation, permissions." In his peripheral vision, John knew the Holmes brothers were communicating, watching, waiting. "When you're ready."

Inhale, exhale, and he could almost hear Sherlock's voice cuing him, mocking him perhaps, _deep breath_. He wanted to look over but didn't dare take his eyes from the video, as if they would disappear if he even blinked too long.

"All right, go ahead." John could tell that Mycroft was waiting for him, for his permission to proceed, and as Mycroft said, the interpreter identified himself and the people in English, then a flurry of very rapid either Dari or Pashto, after all this time, John could not distinguish the difference particularly when they spoke so fast. Then, back to English, he told the camera that the boy and his parents had agreed to be both interviewed and filmed. There had, he added, been explanations of the purpose and assurances of their careful gathering, their protection and that none of them had to answer anything they weren't comfortable with. It took a bit to get used to filtering out the other language, but the interpreter was extremely proficient with very little accent, and both he and the agent seemed relaxed, which placed the family at ease as well. It occurred to John that quite a bit of behind-the-scenes manoeuvering, investigating, and strategising must have been required to even get to this point, get all of them assembled, the video equipment.

_"Hi Ramin"_

_There was a wave, then he answered, shyly, his glances at the camera self-conscious. "Hi"_

_"Remember as I already told you, just a few questions with the camera and your parents. You don't have to say anything you don't want to, all right Ramin?"_

_"All right"_

_"And you all are giving permission to proceed?"_

_Three nods._

_"And if you need to stop for any reason, that's perfectly okay."_

_Another nod, from the boy's father._

_To Ramin, "How are you today?"_

_"Good"_

_"Did you go to school?"_

_"Yes, of course."_

_"What are your favourite subjects?"_

_"Science. And I like to read. Playing outside when the teacher lets us." There were smiles of the people in the video._

There were smiles on the faces of the people in Mycroft's office too.

_"Are you good in school? A good student?"_

_"Top scores in my class, except for my best friend Cesar. Almost top." His broad smile and gesture was that of surrender, as if it couldn't be helped._

_"How old are you now?"_

_"Almost ten."_

_"What do you want to do when you grow up?"_

_"I want to be a doctor. Or a policeman. They help people."_

_In the video, there is a photo handed over._

Even from the angle of the camera, John could tell it was his military headshot. God he'd been young then, unscarred, idealistic. The image wasn't all that changed from his current likeness, but he felt old. Much older than the photo anyway.

_"Do you remember meeting this man before?"_

_Ramin's eyes lit up, and the camera zoomed in a little, a close up of his face. It zoomed in again, getting even closer, the smile and pleasure unmistakable. There were grins as he corrected the question, the English-Dari/Pashto being apparently clarified or corrected. The adults grinned at his intervention. "That's my doctor. Dr John."_

_"You remember anything about him?"_

_"He helped me, he was kind and nice. Even though he wore a uniform." There was a fleeting and complete loss of smile, furrowed brow, and then Ramin recovered himself, shrugged, smiled again a little smaller at the camera and the translator. "I remember him telling me I was going to be all right."_

The unease on Ramin's face, though, was poignant. John could feel the queasy stomach beneath his nervous chest. Inhale, exhale, eyes on the video even as he could feel himself being watched, studied, from across the room.

Dishonourable discharge, voluntary retirement, he reminded himself. Obvious survival, as well. He'd all but convinced himself that by rights, Ramin would likely have ...  Focus, Watson.

_"This video is only for him, all right? He'll be watching you in a couple of days."_

_There was a nervous flicker to the camera. The boy was quieter. The agent's tone, and then the translator's tone, was still gentle. "Dr. John has not forgotten about you."_

Oh god, John thought, truer words were ne'er spoken.

_A small smile, a wave again as the translator delivered that message._

_"He was worried about you, and then he got hurt and the army had to send him home." Ramin's face was concerned. "To get better, recover." Ramin seemed less worried._

_A few questions not in English, and the translator smiled, told the camera that he was scared that John was still hurt or all alone. "And he tells me that he had wanted to say goodbye to you, doctor, when Ramin left the hospital so quickly that day."_

John sighed, agreeing with every cell in his body, still able to easily recall the sickening feeling of finding Ramin gone. He'd wanted to say much more than goodbye at the time. Much more.

_"He will be able to see that you are all right in these pictures. That you're safe. He'll be relieved to see you healthy."_

_"Ok. Hi, Dr. John." Ramin smiled again, waved. There was a dimple that was fun to see, and John smiled as he could see that it was natural and heartfelt._

_"He was worried about you when you had your first operation"_

First operation. Implying another. John could only stare further, watching Ramin. His face was not drawn, not thin. Healthy. Nourished. Please, please, he thought, please let it be true.

_There was discussion without English translation for a moment, and Ramin looked over at his father, who nodded, and then slowly the camera angle refocused, and he lifted his shirt. A minimal push of the waistband of his trousers revealed a scarred but intact abdomen. The scars were well healed, no appliance, no bag, and a thinly approximated incisional scar, another small circular scar. Obviously there'd been no gaping incision, no post operative wound infection that would have required re-opening for drainage, no festering wounds, no butchering by well-meaning but unskilled developing-country surgeons. "See?" He said, looking down and then back up at the camera, grinning a little, most of his shyness seeming to be fading, "all better."_

_"Does it still hurt you?"_

_Ramin took his own index finger, poked at his own belly in a couple of places, finding the question humorous and needing proof as he answered, "Not at all." Another giggle._

_"And you're able to eat, and do other things normally?"_

_Ramin made a face as if that were a stupid, foolish question. "Of course._   _Like all my friends. School. Studying, reading. Running, kites. Wrestling each other," and he made a gesture as if performing some move with his friend, stretching his limbs awkwardly, playing now for the camera. There was a giggle as his mother tapped him on the shoulder and he righted himself in his chair._

_The parents, still visible in the back of the video when the camera panned out, were still for a moment, then the mother leaned close, obviously said something to the interpreter, at which point the interpreter looked back at them and at the man doing the interview._

_Culturally, John knew it was more common for the man to do the speaking, but he was watching his wife. She whispered, her thick guttural sounds that John could barely hear let alone understand, were quick, a few sentences, and at the end, she looked up into the camera with her thick, fathomless brown eyes. There were no tears - John knew that was also a cultural thing - but they were sincere and deep and expressive. Gentle. Beseeching and pleading. Reminiscent of when John had been summoned to their home so long ago. She looked grateful._

_"She wishes me to tell you that while she is still angry that this happened, they are moving past it, and that they all credit you, Dr John, with the boys survival, with his remarkable recovery. The surgeon who did the re-connection complimented your work and" he struggled for a moment searching for a proper English equivalent ".. and your methods as well." There was more passionate speaking from her, and then the translator seemed to catch a bit on his words and he went back to word-for-word translating._

_"I wish you much love and happiness and wish to tell you that what you did for Ramin was nothing short of heroic. You are our hero."_

_More mumbling between both parents and the translator, then the parents reached out for their son, and together, the three of them, close together in the camera frame, all said with their own thick accents, in barely understandable English, "thank you."_

John stared at the screen, oblivious to anyone else in the room. But Sherlock was paying attention to more than just that. He'd stepped to the laptop, reached out a quick finger and paused the video, and Mycroft chided him, without looking around, snapped, "What are you doing? It's not over y--"

"Out," Sherlock said, interrupting, an aside, to Mycroft, who then turned to look, and must have realised. His eyes stuck on John, and it became obvious why Sherlock had done it. Sherlock, wordless, jerked his head at the door, pinned a sharp and serious look at Mycroft, flicked his eyes furiously at him, once, who then ghosted from the room. The door clicked quietly behind him. John and Sherlock were alone.

John was crying, silent tears. Breath catching, shoulders tight, staring at the screen. Overwhelmed.

"Want me to ..." _leave?_   Sherlock gestured toward the door.

A shuddering breath, a purse-lipped blow, biofeedback, the physiologic associations of relaxing, of calming oneself. He shook his head, one single time, no. "I'm all right." Inhale, exhale. "Need a minute." He brushed a hand across his face. _"Oh my god."_ Another hard swallow over a dry mouth, a shaky breath again.

An answering, non-verbal return nod to John's statement.

Another calming attempt, and John rose to his feet, his injured, _healed_ shoulder uncharacteristically and annoyingly spasming, cleansing breaths, an idle stretch. Very deliberately, noticeably at least to Sherlock, John did not look at all in the direction of the paused video. Not yet. The translator, the parents, Ramin, all in their frozen poses. Benign but for the painful associations. Standing tall, a few steps toward an ornate wood shelf, a window sash and sill, a rolling of his upper arms, backward rotation, forward, a very minimal butterfly-type stroke without using his arms.

"Shoulder's bothering you."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"You do realise," John began, thinking he shouldn't need to - and didn't want to - explain it.

Sherlock interrupted. "Of course I do." After a moment he continued, "I wanted to make sure you do."

Another sigh, and John shoved his hands into his pockets, restless as he stood there in Mycroft's office. "Association, psychosomatic. It'll go away." For the first time since his arrival, he faced Sherlock from only a few feet away, much closer now, staring intently, assessing. Eyes clear, features engaged, very cared for, polished, outfitted. The previously noted health about him, although still pale, obviously a normal alabaster skin type then. "Funny what can bring it on. Seeing a news clip, or a kid his age on the street. Not always." Feeling obviously a little more in control, John reached out a hand to point toward the screen, stared again at Ramin. "But this?" John puffed air out slowly. "This is incredible. He looks great."

"For a child, I suppose."

"Trust me, he looks wonderful. Whole." John glanced around to find Sherlock looking skeptically at the screen. "You don't like children."

"They don't follow directions well. They willfully misbehave." Sherlock, John realised, had no insight regarding his own behaviour. None. "They don't listen, they're unruly. Disorderly."

His antics, along with his cluelessness, helped burst the knot of tension that had been just quivering in his chest. A small laugh, and he couldn't help but at least comment. "Not unlike some adults I know."

"Right, Mycroft, absolutely ridiculous, I agree, that one." The snarky grin, and John knew that Sherlock's words had been quite intentional, trying to further lighten the moment, dangling his humour in front of John. Although true. Eyes still bright, shining, warm, he waited for John to breathe again, relax his body posture, face the screen again with a kinder, gentler reflection. "I believe there's a little more on the video. If you're ready."

"Likely to finish tearing my guts apart again?"

"I don't know, Mycroft briefed me on the contents but I haven't seen this before." He hedged, considering. "Doubtful." There was another pause, a bit more awkward this time, with John still blinking rapidly and very aware of the remainder yet to come. Sherlock spoke again, "I'm sorry we didn't warn you about it."

"Oh don't misinterpret this, it's wonderful to see. Absolutely fantastic."

Sherlock looked a bit skeptical as he took in John's demeanor, his raw emotion. "Say the word, I'll hit play."

"Fine."

_The activity on the screen resumed, a few words in what was nonunderstandable language. It was Ramin's father this time, talking with the agent through the interpreter._

_"We were relieved to hear that the ..." and the interpreter did look mildly uncomfortable "... bastard responsible has been punished. That news was most welcome, and our family rejoiced."_

_"If you ever find yourself in the area again, please look us up."_

_Some smiles between them, and Ramin seemed fascinated with the tassel on the agent's shoe, then his ritzy looking pen and paper that he was referring to, as if checking the list, and then a paper clip that he must've picked up somewhere. It was endearing, that Ramin was a normal, typical, restless, bored kid. "I have no further questions, but thank you for talking with us." To Ramin, he spoke and then the translator did as well in both directions, "I believe Dr. John is going to be very relieved to see that you're doing well. Was there anything else you wanted to say? Or anything to ask?"_

_There was a question from Ramin, and an immediate and somewhat animated reaction from his parents of an apology, a contradiction, a good-natured smiling almost embarrassed response._

_The agent laughed, as did Ramin. The translater looked into the camera, quite amused. He spoke directly to the camera, "Ramin has asked for his pen."_

_The agent handed it over, laughing, then reached inside his inner jacket pocket, secured another, and handed that over too._

_The camera froze, then went blank._

_The video was over._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a hard time with parts of this, just given that I love John's character so much and feel badly making things hard on him emotionally. Big strong Captain Watson moved so ...
> 
> Please let me know gently if something's not clear.
> 
> Thanks to everyone - you know who you are - who has been sticking by this story and encouraging me so much!


	20. My Place is Here with You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title, a statement by John Watson in a previous chapters dialogue.
> 
> Loose ends, woven together, form a stronger item of beauty and function, and are pleasing to look at. They are one of a kind creations, unique. A tapestry of interwoven lives, of slight imperfections or scars perhaps, that tell a beautiful, strong, and compelling story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go. This chapter was supposed to be it, but I ~~wanted, needed,~~ demanded more fluff, more reward, so there's this that wraps up most of the story, one more (apparently), and then an epilogue of smutty goodness.
> 
> And oh dear me, the boys deserve it.
> 
> I'm not sure I'm going to be able to let them go even after that. I might be having separation anxiety from this writing.

Every now and again, he would get caught in a memory that reverberated inside his head, echoes of his genius patient. Words, settings, certain foods reminded him of Sherlock, and more then once he caught himself grinning in response. His sock drawer, for instance, was absolutely not indexed but it was more orderly than it had ever been. If he'd separated his wool from his argyles from his cotton blend dress, well, it could have been coincidental.

It wasn't though, and he knew it.

Things happened that triggered a memory on the medical front, too, at his new position. His independent medical consulting career held little appeal on a longer-term basis, so he had taken a few smaller, day-hour only clients, and ended up taking a locum job at the walk-in clinic, where he found some satisfaction in the quick pace, the variety, the temporary, fulfilling work. There were times when someone or something reminded him of Sherlock. A cynical retort, a turned up collar, a crooked smile. Sometimes, even from down the hall, he could hear the inflection of some of the things Sherlock would typically say and in the manner he would say it. He'd just referred the previous patient for lab studies and had filed the chart in the appropriate pile. He'd either been day dreaming or had heard someone speaking a bit ago with a snappy statement, just oozing Sherlock, and he was still sort of smiling at the association when the nurse gestured at the closed exam room door, where a patient file had been placed in the deflecto indicating that the patient was ready.

"Last appointment just arrived. Waiting for you in three."

John nodded, took the chart that was waiting for him. William Scott, age 29, routine physical. The scheduling note was that he'd insisted quite emphatically that he be given the last appointment of the day. And insisted on John.

Not the usual, John thought. Usually, by that time, if there was a delay, it meant more waiting, more inclination to rush if they were all so inclined. Shrugging, he straightened his tie, lab coat, and pushed open the door to the exam room. "Good aftern--" he said then stopped abruptly when he saw who it was.

"--oon." Sherlock, seated on the paper covered table, finished for him, smiling. " _Afternoon,_ Dr. Watson. Since you apparently failed to struggle to the end of the word."

"Yes, afternoon," John echoed. "Are you quite all right?" He gave Sherlock the once-over, thinking at first blush he looked quite well. A bit more colour. Healthy. Weight up to approaching normal. Skin turgor and tone good. Eyes bright. "You're not ill?"

"I came to see you."

"Yes. Appointment. Got it." John glanced down again looking to find see the form, where usually there was the nurse's notations of vital signs, medical history, medication list, and other notations. While the vital signs were filled out, the rest was blank. "Seems you haven't been particularly cooperative." He picked up briefly the paper examination gown that was sitting untouched next to Sherlock on the exam table, and then glanced over, amused, at Sherlock. "This is my shocked face."

"Unnecessary."

"You're not ill then? Not here for a specific ailment?" He couldn't find anything particularly alarming about Sherlock's overall state of health just by looking. "I don't understand."

"I'm here because you claimed you wouldn't consider a personal, actual relationship with me due to the fact that you were my physician."

"So you're here to cement that role? Me being your doctor, then?"

Sherlock flashed a triumphant smile. "No. I'm here to challenge your boundaries. I'm here to see if the converse is true. If you'll refuse to perform a routine physical, too, because you feel you can't." 

"I don't think you're here for me to give you a physical."

"Maybe I am. Will you?"

A tense moment. John held the file open, but didn't look at it. Instead, he stood close to Sherlock's knee, where he was seated on the exam table. Their eyes met, smiles very small. "Do you ..." he began, then swallowed hard. "Do you _want_ me to give you a physical?"

"I'm not answering that. I'm here for a physical, or so says the paperwork."

"You came to see me to draw a line in the sand."

"Perhaps." He considered John, his look inscrutable, very much in the moment and in the game. "I came to see if you would cross the line or not."

John weighed his options, considering carefully, choosing his words honestly. "Then my answer is no." He set the clipboard down. "If there is a medical need, or you need this bloody form filled out, I can find another provider for you."

"That's not why I came here today." Sherlock fidgeted on the table, the paper table cover crinkling underneath him a bit.

"Good," he said but the word came out hoarse. "Good," he repeated. Clearing his throat, John found their awkwardness exacerbated by the location, the medical equipment, the fact that Sherlock's medical record still sat on the counter. "Can we take this somewhere else?"

"Back to my flat?" he said with a wry pout to his mouth.

"No." John smiled at his predictability and determination. "I was thinking my office."

"You have an office here too?"

"Well, I have an office to use while I'm here. Temporary assignment, actually. But I'm, uh... hoping for a more permanent position." 

"You gave up the other, the in-home consultations?"

"I did. Found I kind of ... might be ready for a change." _I couldn't stomach the thought of getting close to someone again, risk a connection that, when it was broken, hurt so much._

"Pity. You were quite good at it."

"I appreciate that, Sherlock. Truly. And I enjoyed it." They locked eyes. "It kind of lost it's shine for me. It was a good season, though."

John took and set aside the paper gown that Sherlock hadn't put on, and held the door open for Sherlock. It was a short jaunt in the hallway to an open door, and, entering, John set Sherlock's chart onto the corner of his desk, and they both sat down. "Nice office, I suppose. Boring."

"It'll do." There was a photo frame in hand-painted camouflage on the corner of his desk, the photo of John, Harry and their mum smiling from within it that had been taken at his induction. Next to that sat a citation that had been recently received and framed, and just behind the desk leaning against the wall was John's diploma. Sherlock bent a bit to study the commendation, noting the date from a few weeks previously.

"That's the one?"

"That got held up, misdirected. Misplaced. Yeah." It gave John a sensation of some tingling warmth as he watched Sherlock consider it. So many factors had come into play that the citation was there in the first place, but even more importantly that Ramin was doing well, that his family was coping, and the variable of Mycroft getting involved in the first place, setting so many things in motion, was quite fulfilling, satisfying indeed.

With a reverent finger, Sherlock traced the Military Cross medal that was hanging from the corner of the frame. "It's quite nice. Congratulations."

Sherlock looked up at John in time to see him swallow hard, a fleeting frown, so much emotion in his expression, a few rapid blinks. He also noticed that John's mouth moved, lips and teeth working a bit, nervous or looking for words.

"You earned this. You deserve it."

"Thanks. I'm thinking I know a ten year old Afghan boy who might find a bit of pleasure in it too. I'm looking into sending it to him."

"Include a fancy biro. I'm given to understand he likes those too."

An unexpected, spontaneous quiet snort of laughter from John broke some of the tension in the room.

"My brother tends to buy and use ridiculous writing instruments. Let's make sure he donates to the cause as well."

++

A week or so previously, Sherlock's mobile buzzed, an incoming text from Mycroft. He ignored it.

Another sounded an hour or so later, a different message content, same sender.

First one, the link to John's medical consulting website. He clicked on it, surprised when the link went nowhere. Site deactivated, access denied. A pop-up message indicated that the domain name was available for purchase if he wanted it, and contact information from the web hosting company. It puzzled him a little, but not enough - in the middle of the investigating he was already doing - to search any further.

When he finally needed a mental break from the case he was evaluating, having been sent home - "To sleep, Sherlock, get some rest!" - by Greg Lestrade, the other text was still unread. He flumped down on the couch, sighed, opened the message. It was another website link, londonclinic.nhs.uk and he almost deleted it outright. On second consideration, he clicked on it then spent the next few minutes reading about recent additions to their medical staff. When he was done, he called the main office number, gave his name as William Scott, and asked for Dr. Watson's last appointment of the day. "Yes, that's fine," he said, trying not to lambaste the ridiculous receptionist for even bothering to question why he wanted the final appointment, "next Monday suits fine."

++

A week or so previously, John's mobile buzzed during an abscess irrigation and drainage on a patient's ankle. A soft chime indicated an incoming text from Mycroft. He ignored it.

Though he didn't read it right away, he knew it was there. He could only shake his head, and spent a few minutes convincing himself that he should just open the bloody thing and be done with it. His next break between patients, he did finally look at it. It was a website, aguidetodeduction.uk, and he only hesitated a moment before clicking on the link. Cigarette ash, tobacco ash, and 145 other types of leaves burnt to a crisp and then analysed in the name of science. Didn't appear, so far anyway, that any flamed, burnt, charred, or incinerated blueberries from his earlier shenanigans, had made it to Sherlock's website. Pity. It was still amusing, John realised, and was still smiling about it when he entered the room of his next patient.

The following week, another text arrived, and John ducked into his office to check his mobile between patients. This one was a news article, touting the genius of Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes in solving yet another case. The article was a bit slanted but John read the whole thing, and then opened the comments. Before he could think about it too much, before he could talk himself out of it, he entered his own comment and hit post.

**Hey, congratulations on another brilliant endeavor. You really seem to have found your niche. Best of everything to you. JHW**

Later that afternoon, he was advised by one of the staff nurses at the office that his final appointment of the day had arrived and was waiting for him in exam room three.

++

"Are you sure that meeting like this in your office is okay?" Sherlock glanced at the rest of the mostly impersonal desk clutter, papers, notes, a few printed articles about various medical conditions and practice alerts. "You didn't want to examine me or anything, so maybe this isn't the best place."

Sherlock stopped speaking when John reached into a lower desk drawer file, retrieved his binder, pulled it to the desk in front of him, a page open, biro in hand. "Remember those final appointments we were supposed to have together?"

"Of course I do. Frankly, they're completely unnecessary now. Enough time has gone by, it's ..."

John flipped the writing instrument in his hand, choosing his words. It was probably best, he realised, that he hadn't known Sherlock was coming, and was essentially thrown into the deep end of the pool and now needed to survive, tread water, and decide how to proceed without overthinking it. "Oh, no. I think this is the perfect time and place. And once we've determined that you're in a good, healthy, stable frame of mind, and have had a few meetings together if we need to, I will discharge you completely from my services."

_"John."_

"So, fill me in on what's been going on in your life the last few weeks."

"Working. Solving cases. Eating, sleeping. One seven-milligram patch only on days I feel the need. Maybe put one on only a couple of days every week. Rare alcohol, maybe once a week if that and only socially. With my god-awful brother who drags me to ridiculous, snooty places for dinner."

"Last time using anything stronger?"

"Stronger such as what specifically?"

"Heroin. Cocaine. Marijuana. Anything illegal, non-prescription, recreational. I think you know what I'm asking."

"Had a bit of a relapse with some cocaine a few months back. Some cravings from time to time. You know all of this."

"How about since the morning I had to leave, nothing since?"

"No." Sherlock was irritated at the questions, his answers snippy and curt. "Got drug tested maybe five or six weeks ago as a new job requirement, which you also already know. Again three days ago as part of their random new hire testing, supposedly."

"How'd it go?"

"Oh, the usual, urinated into a container, a clean catch midstream collection more specifically, sealed the lid, handed it over."

"Not what I meant." John closed his eyes, feeling the frustration rising and knowing this wasn't particularly helping. Both of them were understandably uncomfortable. "Look. I know these questions bug the hell out of you. For me, though, it's unfinished business." He could see Sherlock's jaws clench. "I was referring to the previous time when you needed the screening done, and it made you ..."

"I well recall that miserable experience, ta for bringing it up again."

"No anxiety this time?"

"None." Sherlock scooted back in the chair he'd taken, stood to his feet. "I think we're done here."

John knew Sherlock was a hairbreadth away from storming out of the room. "Please don't go," he said quickly. "Please."

"Give me one _good, compelling_ reason to stay."

"Because I asked you to. Because I am asking you to trust me, to continue to trust me." John stood up, too, so that they were closely facing each other, Sherlock's agitation radiating between them, John's careful request tempering it somewhat. He hesitated, unsure if any physical contact was a good idea or not, then slid his hand carefully around Sherlock's forearm. Despite the long-sleeved shirt between them, John's hand felt warm over Sherlock's arm, the muscles tense, the connection present but still quite easily broken had Sherlock wanted to get away. A quick squeeze, a reminder, fingers and palm gentle. "A couple of questions, a handful, really, just to follow-up. I think, Sherlock, that we owe it to ourselves to proceed carefully, don't you?" John let go of Sherlock, then, making it clear that this was Sherlock's choice, Sherlock's decision, that he was giving permission and as a result, his tacit agreement to participate. "A few minutes time, Sherlock, is all I'm asking."

"Perhaps. But I want to go on record --"

"Your objections are duly noted." John sat again, gingerly, made a hash tag mark in the upper right corner of the page. "See?"

"Then that should be two, not just one." John smirked, added a second, humouring him, he hoped. Sherlock shook his head in disapproval. "Can you make them darker, with more feeling behind it, or maybe with another colour --"

"Let's just let these stay as they are, yeah?" John knew he was looking to take back whatever control John would let him, and that to give him too much of an upper hand would not get them from point A to point B. "So, you mentioned you were sleeping. How many hours a night?"

Sherlock perched on the edge of the front of the chair, still uneasy, conveying that he wasn't getting too comfortable. "Oh please, hardly at night. A few naps, early morning, usually from one am or so, a couple hours."

"How many hours spent sleeping in the course of a typical day, then?"

His jaws clenched, and John knew the answer was going to be only partially true. "Five or six. Sometimes more. When there's stuff going on, less than five. I don't need that much, which I think you should remember."

"Does your sleep feel restorative?"

A small amount of colour infused those cheekbones as Sherlock considered how to answer. "I did have a bit of trouble a few nights, early, when you first left for Scotland." John was impressed, moved, that Sherlock was surprisingly forthcoming with that revelation. "Mycroft stayed a few nights. Molly offered but I turned her down. Mrs. Hudson came up a few times in the middle of the night to complain I was making too much noise, once because of the smoke --" He stopped abruptly, realising he'd said too much, inadvertently letting a detail slip past him.

"Smoke?"

"Well, the ash got a little out of hand, and sadly," he began faking some sadness, "another of those horrid placemats Mycroft had brought over fell victim to the flames."

"But it's better now? Your sleep, I mean, not the placemat." John couldn't help adding the small jibe about the kitchen linens. Sherlock nodded, and John got the distinct impression that the first nights in the flat were not easy. "I'm sorry about that, you know."

"Had to happen sometime. Mycroft stayed, like I said. I'm all right. On nights when I just can't sleep - which is not that uncommon for me anyway, you realise, even from when I was very young - I find something quieter, and with less pyrotechnics, to entertain myself." A small smile then, something that was a nice association, and he shared it. "I finished Treasure Island. Hadn't read it in so many years. Great book."

"I saw you'd sent it along, with the rest of my things. Thanks."

"You read it?"

"I did." John opted for some disclosure, then. "Middle of the night, after I'd returned from Scotland. Touch of insomnia, myself."

"Should have texted me. I was probably awake."

"Yeah, about that, I wanted to, all the time for the first couple of days. And then Mycroft and I decided it might be best to let things cool down, settle." Sherlock nodded a bit, so John figured he'd had the discussion with him as well. "And then, I thought maybe it would make things harder for you."

"As if."

"The goal was to help you stand on your own, manage it." John shrugged watching Sherlock closely.

"I don't think it would have mattered. It _was_ hard."

"I agree."

"Can I ask why you've changed careers?"

"Not yet," he said, keeping his answer vague as he glanced at the list of questions still to go. "Employment hours per week?"

Sherlock ignored the question. "I'm sorry, by the way, about your mum. I meant to tell you, and then Mycroft ..."

"Thanks, and yes, Mycroft included you in his condolences." John thought about elaborating, explaining a few things, describing some of the blessings of being with her in those last weeks, particularly the days when she was interactive, but opted to stay focused and hopefully set a good example for Sherlock. John was sure that Sherlock was not done chasing rabbits or dangling red herrings in their discussion. "So back to the question, employment hours?"

"Varies, depending on the crime statistics and the continued idiocy of the various NSY officers." There was a dark smile. "And the calibre of the seediest London has to offer."

"Enough hours to support yourself, meet your financial needs?"

"That, and the family funds if I were to need them," he muttered. "Yes."

"Social life? Dating? Friends?"

"Well, homeless network seems to have been scared off somewhat by my brother, who must've threatened them with something terrible like a shower or to cut off their supply of handouts from somewhere if they enable me regarding previous habits. I see them from time to time when I seek them out. Molly tried, but our connection was you, so that was just awkward every time she came over." He chuckled then. "I understand now that she'll probably never trust me."

"Yeah, that was hard on her, just so you know. She felt terribly responsible."

"Greg stopped by a few times, just you know, saying he 'stopped in to check how things were going' and it was so blatantly obvious I finally started calling him the wrong name to give him something else to fuss about other than keeping an eye on me."

"So you're calling him, what, _Craig_?"

"No, nothing that close. Gavin. Geoff. George, though he didn't really like that one too much. Next time it's going to be Travis, which is the name of the bloke his wife is having an affair with, just for fun."

John knew his eyes were huge, shocked, as he looked back at Sherlock with alarm. "You shouldn't. No really, don't do that."

"Maybe I'll make sure we are all together when I do it, so you can see just how much fun it can be."

"Sherlock. Don't be cruel."

"God, you're gullible. I wouldn't do that." John made a face of disbelief. "Unless he provoked me. Or otherwise deserved it. But her lover, his name _is_ Travis." Another smile. "He asked me out for pints, Greg did. God, the idea of sitting at a pub, all those germs and the people, the mindless telly, the noise, the social absurdities. It's a wonder you people can put together a coherent thought, given what you subject yourselves to. But I'm sure he'd like to go out with you, grab a pint. _Chat_." The last word came out with a grimace and a snarl of distaste.

"Let's focus here, yeah?" A rolling of the eyes, and Sherlock made an impatient gesture.  John glanced again at his follow-up topics. "You didn't mention dating."

"And I'm not going to. Moving on."

"So there's someone you're interested in?" John saw the scab, picked at it.

"I refuse to flatter you. You know bloody well that there is." Sherlock huffed a bit, crossed his arms in front of himself. "Now ask another question if you must."

"For all I know, there could be someone else, and you could tell me that if --" John's question, delivery, all professional and detached, as it should be.

"There's no one else."

Looking back at the paper, he nodded. "Any illegal substances, you said no?" He waited for Sherlock to respond, his own eyes fixed on the paper in front of him. When the silence dragged on longer than it should have, he looked up to find Sherlock looking particularly worried. Alarmed, actually. "What's wrong?"

"Wait. Wait. Is there someone else for you? Is that why you asked that question again?" John's breath caught, and he was momentarily struck mute. "That would have been the perfect point to bring it up, if there was someone. Or perhaps that's why you circled back to it." He continued another few sentences, working his logical brain into a twisted knot of confusion. "Or why you --"

"Sherlock. _Sherlock._ " John attempted to interrupt him, finally set down his pen, reached across the space between them to grab at Sherlock's knee. "Sherlock, listen. No, there's no one else. But don't get ahead of ourselves here. There's also no us. Not yet."

"What do you mean, there's no _us_?"

"There isn't." John spoke gently but with authority, a brow raised.

"So you're not interested?" He seemed distraught at where his mind had gone.

Exhaling slowly and quietly, John closed his eyes briefly, a supplication for the right words. "Stop. Just, stop, wait, _listen to me_." He brushed a small circle over Sherlock's knee. "Yes, interested, okay? No, there's no one else, all right?" He kept his tone light, gentle. "Now relax, put the brakes on your runaway thoughts. We've got a little ground to cover first." He waited for Sherlock to take a few deep breaths, eventually to nod in agreement. "Any prescription medications that we haven't discussed, prescribed for you or prescribed for someone else?"

"No. Not even Mrs. Hudson's herbal soothers." There was still a reserved aura about him, but he was trying to engage with the questions.

"Herbal soothers?"

"Good god, John. Tell me you didn't know about them."

"Okay, so no to the sharing prescriptions or other substances." He made a mental note to find out more about Sherlock's landlady, some other time. "Any times in the past two weeks when you've felt down, depressed, or hopeless?"

A small smirk. "Ah, good the suicide risk screening. Been looking forward to this. Not out of context with what's been going on, no."

"What exactly does that mean?" John thought he meant it as typical emotions but wanted to clarify.

"I'm bothered sometimes at where I am. At my ... shortcomings. I told you that before, weakness is just ... unacceptable. I don't care for it." He took a deep breath, sat straighter, and continued. "Everyone has days where they're maybe a little less enthused about things. Normal." His eyes were clear and steady as he held John's gaze. "There's no despair, or anything remotely close. I have no wish that things would ... cease."

"I didn't think so, but needed --"

"I still have plenty of things I need to light on fire. People to offend. Crimes to solve, you know." They shared a small smile. "The usual." Sherlock turned mischievous. "Doctors to --"

"Moving on, then," John interrupted. "Are you able to find enjoyment in daily activities and have enough energy to get through the day?"

"Give me your mobile, let me text my brother something inappropriate to prove it to you, and yes, of course I can find enjoyment in a vast amount of questionable activities."

Puzzled, John asked, "Why from my mobile?"

"Because it would be much more amusing, particularly if he didn't initially realise it wasn't you doing the sending."

Trying to keep his grin to a small one, John jotted a note on the paper. "How would you rate your appetite?"

Another frustrated gesture. "Normal for me."

"How many balanced meals per day?"

Sherlock's lips narrowed as he clearly was attempting to decide what answer to invent. "Let's stick with at least one. More than that occasionally." John quirked an eyebrow. "Rarely."

"Weight?"

"Probably right about where I should be. Have gained slowly, steadily to where I am now." He spread out his arms. "As you can probably see."

"You look healthy at this weight. Better."

"You've lost a few, yourself."

"It was rough, you know." Choosing not to elaborate on that, he got to the crux of the questions he wanted to ask. "So no recent drug use, that's commendable. It would be expected that you still have cravings from time to time."

"I suppose."

"How are you managing to handle cravings?"

"By not giving in." John held steady, knowing Sherlock realised he wanted more explanation than the shallow, pat answer. "Haven't had many. That's never been too much of a problem."

"Fair enough. Think about it ahead of time, though, for when you do get one. How are you going to handle it?"

"I was encouraged to make a list of ideas."

"So did you?" With a slightly arrogant, mildly enigmatic smile and gesture, Sherlock seemed to imply that he had, so John kept going. "In the past, you turned to using drugs as an escape, to manage frustration or anger?" Sherlock pondered a moment then nodded. "How are you dealing with things that used to trigger drug usage, those situations, associations, frustrations, social cues?"

"I have some support, here and there. Work is a helpful distraction. Numbers I can call if things get bad. Family." He smirked again. "You'll notice that take a deep breath is conspicuously absent from my plan."

"I did, yes. But I also notice you practice it from time to time, even as we've been talking."

"So have you."

"Of course. It's helpful. Have you had a time that you were quite vulnerable, had a hard day perhaps, did you take the opportunity to reach out when things got hard, when you were tempted to start using, or to indulge just once?"

He looked back at John, directly in the eye. "The day we watched that video, yeah. That night, I ... yeah."

++

The video had stayed frozen there on the flat screen in Mycroft's office while John tried to process what he'd seen, heard, and learned in the last few minutes. The quiet, stillness in the office was not terribly uncomfortable, two men keeping their words to themselves, treading lightly and carefully on the heels of a rather dramatic reveal.

Sherlock did little, said nothing, but eventually moved to the wet bar, retrieved a bottle of cold water, handed it out to John who smiled, grateful, took a long pull from it.

Another few minutes elapsed before Sherlock asked softly, "You okay?"

"I am." The quaver in his voice was rather telling, however, and he recognised the probability that it was an obvious lie. "I will be," he amended.

"Are you angry that Mycroft told me, showed me, the paperwork about what happened?"

"No, I suppose not."

"It was actually your news to tell, but Mycroft invited me, and I wanted to be here, to see you, so..."

"I know. It's fine." The screen flicked once, went to sleep, drawing their attention. "It's just a lot to take in."

"Do you want to go, grab tea, or maybe ..."

John was already shaking his head. "I can't right now."

Sherlock said nothing, but he didn't need to - his face was downcast.

"Please, just let me go," John said, quiet and low. "I just need some time."

"This was supposed to be helpful, closure for you. I'm sorry that it wasn't --"

"Oh, it was. It was such a good thing, yeah? I can't even explain..." John straightened, stopped speaking, looked off in the distance. "I just need ..."

"You saved that boy. He's recovered." One of Sherlock's eyebrows lifted, curious as to John's quietness. "Doesn't that help?"

"Of course it does." His smile was deeper then, but still sad and bittersweet. "I'll be in touch, Sherlock, but you're doing great. You're busy, I read about one of your cases --""

"I know. I saw your comment."

There was another, not-uncomfortable lull again, there in Mycroft's office, the atmosphere still charged, John's tension and Sherlock's watchfulness keeping them both a bit introspective. Quiet footsteps in the hall, and both looked over at the solid, closed door.

A quick knuckle-rap, and Mycroft re-entered. He sized up the room, the occupants, the screen that was now dark. "If now is a bad time...?"

"I was just leaving," John said softly. He clapped a hand over Sherlock's arm, moved to the door. "Thank you seems inadequate, Mycroft, for ..." Helplessly, he turned his palms up, gesturing at the file still on the desk, the computer. There was a faint frown, a serious expression, and John cleared his throat. "Thanks for this."

"You are welcome." Mycroft stood, his head tipped slightly back as he pondered intently John's face, laser focused and without blinking. "And if no one else has ever said it to you yet," and he gestured at the screen where Ramin and his family had been seen, "thank you, Captain, for what you did over there."

John gave a single nod, unable to form a word even if he'd wanted to, over the lump in his throat, the tightness in his chest from emotion.

"I'll see that you receive a copy of the video if you desire."

Another single nod, and John was gone.

++

A delivery arrived at John's flat the following day, in a padded, sealed envelope. There was a flash drive and a note, which read: _For security reasons, the drive is view only and in a restricted format that cannot be downloaded in any manner. I trust you understand. For that reason, I have enclosed several photos obtained from the video for your personal, discreet use. Mycroft_

The envelope contained, as he said, the still images were printed out on glossy, high quality paper. One of them showed the group, all five people, in a candid pose, Ramin laughing, the translator amused, the agent handing over his biro to the boy. The other, when John flipped to it, took his breath away.

It was a close up crop of Ramin holding John's headshot, quite visible. Ramin's smile was easy, honest, broad, a hand reaching out toward John's likeness and his eyes twinkling at what he saw, all captured readily by the camera.

He set both aside, pulled on a coat, and turned his steps in no direction whatsoever as he went for a mind-clearing walk.

Mycroft later would view John on CCTV, his expression somber, his affect a bit more settled, less tension in the set of his eyes. But still quite alone. He was notified when Dr. Watson's completed job application showed up at the local clinic, and he chose to keep his hands and his influence away from the situation. They would hire him immediately, and quite easily without him getting involved.

That evening, Mycroft contacted Sherlock by text, and when that was unanswered, he turned to surveillance footage from earlier in the day. He seemed to be doing ostensibly well. There was no substance use, no contacts made to the shadier of his previous acquaintances. Should he have chosen to do so, he could have placed photos of both of them side by side, the subdued, resolute sadness they carried mirrored in the others eyes.

Mycroft let them both stew only a couple of days before he could only shake his head at their stubbornness. A few text messages were sent.

++

"The video, right." John sat up straighter, knowing they were getting to the meaty point of the conversation. "That was a hard day, yeah. What did you do?"

Half a smile, the crooked one that John always enjoyed, noticed, appreciated. "It was late, by the time..." He shrugged, became a bit less confident. "I walked over to your flat. Made sure you were home, your lights were on, could see you moving about, really early morning by this time. Felt a little better. Walked home."

John could feel an odd sort of warmth throughout him, the thought of being checked up on, of having people in the periphery giving him some consideration. "Was it hard once you got back home?"

"A little. Yes."

"How tempted were you?" _to use._

"Fairly."

"How did you manage to avoid some of your old habits?" John leaned back, set the pen down, and watched - okay, admired - how Sherlock maintained control, the self-regulatory behaviours he was applying. Posture, breathing, even down to the thoughts and internal self-talk John knew he was using.

There was a small smile. "I finally wrote that list you asked me to do. The list of things I can try when the mood strikes. When I'm tempted, the ideas of how to avoid it."

"The decision." John suggested softly. "After delay and distract." They had talked many weeks before of a strategy to cope with post-addiction cravings, delay, distract, decision. It had been on the heels, of course, of another complaint of Sherlock's regarding the phrase _deep breath_.

"God, you and your list of Ds."

"If it helps, don't mock it too much."

"Yes, well, you can stop feeling so smug, yeah? I used all three that night."

"Not smug, no. Proud of you." He watched Sherlock preen just a bit. "Impressed."

The praise seemed to make Sherlock a little uncomfortable, and he shifted again in the chair, jutting his chin at John's paper. "What's left on your list? Seems to me we're at the bottom of the page." Sherlock seemed a bit cocky, more confident, and he smiled as he awaited John's answer.

"Nothing. That's it." He put the biro in his hand down. "Now, do you have your availability for next week? We should set something up so that you and I can meet again."

"I was thinking dinner tonight."

The small voice inside John's head was screaming _yes, do it, I want to, please, of course, yes, let's!_ Out of his mouth, instead, came, "I can do Monday again, next week, if that works for you. Same time?"

"And my other options are?" Disappointment dripped from his tone and his delivery.

"Later in the week, obviously."

"Monday. I suppose I'm available." He was closed by this point, aggravated, quietly stewing. The openness he'd shown in the conversation now seemed gone.

"Sherlock," John began, hedging a little when the gaze Sherlock turned on him - though it felt more like at him to John - was approaching annoyed and heading toward angry. John pressed on, spoke when he didn't necessarily want to, when the message was not the one he wanted to give. "You've trusted me completely, up until now. I'm just asking, please," he said in a quiet urging, "to please trust me a little longer."

An inhale, a nod, and Sherlock stood. He pulled on gloves, resisted making eye contact, and the set of his jaw was stony. "Monday," he said, striding from the room without looking back.

++

Friday afternoon, John ended up picking up a call shift for over the weekend to stay busy. But it didn't stop his mind from considering Monday, making a few plans, coordinating a few things so that he would be free, free from distractions. He sent a text mid afternoon.

 **Can we meet at my office, my real office, at 330 on Monday?** He included the address.

**Fine.**

He spent one evening writing up what he hoped would be a final entry in the file of what would likely be his last, in-home, full-time, in person, private, one-on-one client.

++

_Client has made considerable progress over the past three months.  He has spent the last three weeks primarily on his own with intermittent daytime monitoring, arbitrary supervision, and limited CCTV surveillance._

_Self reported:  There appears to be no current, ongoing substance abuse. There is no alcohol. Nicotine dependence may continue, though he verbalises appropriately regarding use and effectiveness of transdermal nicotine patch._

_Support system, self-reported:  He has a brother, local, who is concerned for his overall welfare and well-being. He currently holds employment, reports that this is helpful for his overall "distraction."  I believe he also finds value in his unique position, and he finds pleasure in his accomplishments as he makes a valuable contribution to the current law enforcement situation._

_Support system, as reported by outside contacts:  His employer, DI G. Lestrade, who has agreed to help with overall monitoring and accountability, reports that he has been quieter of late but punctual and able to function well. Performance may be difficult related to interpersonal interaction and lack of verbal filter with police force members but tasks are completed. Motivation seems at the high end at present, but this could be solely due to the newness of the position and his strong desire to please his supervisor (which he would vehemently deny) as well as his competitive drive to be right, for success, completion, and mastery. Other social contacts are quite few, but M. Hooper MD reports that he is approachable, though he typically refuses help from her. Brother also was quick to provide feedback, and notes that client seems vastly improved particularly in light of the sudden, unplanned change in living arrangement weeks ago.  Landlady reports that nighttime tends to be problematic for client, though at her direction, he has quieted down immensely and makes an attempt to be respectful of excessive noise at odd hours. She advised me that he currently seems in a much better place than ever before._

_Drug screening/toxicology:  Confirmed with employer that all screening to date has been negative.  I suggested that random testing be continued with no gap longer than thirty days for the time being.  So far, he takes the random testing at face value._

_Health:  Self-reported and by objective observation:  overall improved. Eating, nutritionally appropriate, weight and turgor on target. Speech and eyes were clear and sound._

_Behaviours:  Overall within normal limits. Affect bright. No perseverating. Questions answered mostly appropriately although some tangential thoughts were present and he was distracted during some of the interview.  Denies auditory or visual hallucinations._

_Plan:  One more session. Further contact to be determined only as patient requests or if there is a set-back._

_++_

Sherlock was determinedly not going to be early. He walked around the block once to avoid arriving even a minute ahead of the scheduled appointment.

John was in the small waiting room, chatting with another young man, when Sherlock arrived, opening the door and trying ineffectively to cover up his surprise at John not being alone.

"Hi." The stranger reached for his jacket. "Nice to meet you, I'll get right out of your way."

Sherlock did not respond other than with a shrug and a brief handshake.

The stranger turned to John. "Thanks for this. I'll give it some consideration, then, get back to you in a couple of days?"

"That'd be fine. I think we can definitely come up with something that is mutually beneficial."

There was a moment of awkward silence after the door snicked shut.

"Who was that?" Sherlock asked. "What's going on?"

John smiled, sat down, arms stretched out across the back of his chair, ankles crossed leisurely. "Figure it out."

Sherlock glanced around, having never set foot in the office before, considered the room, the appearance, the set up, and then turned back to consider the last place he'd seen the man as he left.

The wise eyes came back to rest on John. "Congratulations."

"Fair enough," John said, smiling a little bigger, impressed just as he'd expected. Sherlock had indeed made some connections. "On what?"

"The way he glanced at the window treatments, the size of the room, the location where this desk is located. Which by the way, would be best suited if you angled it over here, facing the doorway and the window. Given the way he seemed to be taking in dimensions, measuring in his mind, clearly he'd considering moving in here, either leasing outright or subletting it from you." John held steady, watching Sherlock's bright eyes, his speech quick and sure. "Therefore, you're likely getting rid of it, downsizing. You told me last week you'd been contemplating a career change to the clinic at which you were doing locum work." Sherlock unbuttoned his coat as he talked, the flare of it moving as he moved a bit, sliding his gloves off his fingers and pocketing them. "Obviously they offered you a position. Congratulations was meant for you, on your new job."

"I see you haven't lost your touch."

"You're also not going to miss this place."

"No, I'm not."

"It's impersonal. Cold."

"It's suited my needs quite well."

"Why did you want to meet here and not at the surgery?"

"Thought we could talk here just as easily as there. And, I ... I wanted you to see it, I suppose." His smile felt more genuine now that Sherlock was actually there. "So feel free, look around. Impress me."

Sherlock started by reiterating the layout of the room, the placement of the desk implying poor design, and he suggested that John sent a message to potential clients that his choice gave the impression that he wasn't thorough.

"Didn't seem to scare off your brother."

"He was here." Sherlock restated John's words, contemplating. "It looked the same?"

"Yes. As you know, I'm not here all that much when I have a client. And haven't made any significant changes." John was thrilled to be watching Sherlock in action when he wasn't worried about running interference for his safety or the foolish and unwise things he could say to co-workers or clients. "He had an observation of his own."

"His observations don't count for much, do they, given that he already knew entirely too much about you." Sherlock had been staring at the corner where John's cane was, at the wall, window treatments, and wear patterns on the carpet. "He had inside information."

"I suppose that is true."

"It was part of the game for him." Sherlock stood, took a leisurely, careful stroll about the office, the room, and then came to a determination. "You have no military items on display. Not even one. Your diploma, I know, is at the other office. Used to hang here," he gestured at an empty nail. "Very little personal anything here. Bookshelves with unexciting titles, very little to make conversation about." Pausing, he met John's eyes. "You keep most of your books, the personal ones, in your flat."

"Some, yes." John joined him close to the shelf, tipped back a title to draw Sherlock's attention to it, "Confessions of an English Opium-Eater." He raised an eyebrow. "Read that one?"

"No, should I?"

"It's an unusual work, prosaic writing. He was brilliant. Had some addiction and some other personal struggles. Never quite finished university."

"Are you making a comparison for a reason?" Sherlock was amused. "Or trying to tell me I should go back and finish my chemistry degree?"

"No, neither. But his description of addiction, particularly for that time period, is interesting." John's words slowed as he could see that Sherlock's attention was on something else. His cane, leaning in the corner. "Mine. From when I first got back."

"Was your leg injured?"

"Not outwardly. Pain and weakness."

Sherlock glanced around, a frown on his face. "This office to me seems fake. Not yours. Bland, vanilla, almost annoyingly so."

"Most of my clients don't pay attention. Too much real life drama, too much crisis for them to notice. It's intentionally non-distinct, so as to keep focused on their own concerns." He slid behind his - ill-placed, apparently - desk, withdrew Sherlock's file, opened it. "Shall we begin?"

Sherlock took a deep, exaggerated breath, his eyes closing, and John could see a slight shake of his head. "It's why you insisted we meet at all, so yes, of course, I can hardly wait, can hardly contain my excitement."

"Sarcasm suits you better than cynicism does."

"Pity. I was aiming for both."

"I asked you to trust me, remember?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"Has anything changed overmuch in the last week, since we talked?"

"Not especially. I'm a week older is all."

"Anything reportable? Any substance use at all in the last week?"

"I may have held a cigarette lighter in my hand for a few minutes. Burned some new tobacco leaves that came in the post from the States, from Virginia, I believe. May have leaned my head over the smoke, just a little."

"I'm fairly certain a few seconds of that, not directly inhaled, probably doesn't count." He glanced down at the list that he'd created, much shorter than last weeks had been. "So that's a no?"

Sherlock had pushed the book back into alignment on the bookshelf, sunk into the chair opposite John. "We're not going to completely rehash last week, are we?"

"Something more important to do?"

"It's not productive. It's insulting, to me at the redundance and to you as well, for the utter waste of your time."

"Short list, as you can see."  With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock looked away, with no verbal response. "What are your thoughts about relapse prevention?"

"That I shouldn't." He raised an annoyed eyebrow. "Next."

"You said you'd made a list. Did you bring it with you?"

"Did you ask me to?"

John blinked slowly, trying to get a feel for how quickly to move on, and decided that he would - again, with Sherlock Holmes - choose his battles very judiciously. "Do you feel the list you made will be helpful in preventing a relapse?"

A slight angle of the head, a playful canine listening to a tone that was exciting or unusual. "Perhaps. In some instances, maybe." John waited, sensing Sherlock had more than that to say. "Mostly, it proves to you that I can be compliant with a request."

"Thank you for your honesty." He waited until Sherlock was paying attention, and smiled at him, which was returned. "Tell me briefly about what you feel is most helpful, most influential, about your support system."

"Well, its very presence. There has never been one before." John had barely opened his mouth to request clarification when Sherlock held up a hand in a small request for patience. "Work. A few friends. A brother who seems to be more interested than he ever has been previously. Probably looking to save money by preventing another admission or detox. Or services that probably cost more than that. And I'm sure," he said quietly, "he is motivated by a bit of guilt over some previous life experiences that went poorly." His hand opened as if gesturing toward John, and then he took a breath and pressed on, the mood shifting. "More influential, though, I think, is my realisation that I have no wish to return to how dark it was there."

"Which is probably your best motivator, why you'll succeed this time." Another item mentally ticked off his checklist. "Do you have any interest in a social outpatient programme such as NA or AA?"

"Not a one. They would be more insulting and a waste of time than _this_ present meeting is."

"Touche." John smirked. "I would highly recommend, however, that if temptation becomes stronger, intensifies, or if you do have some sort of set-back or a near-miss, that you consider one of the programmes before something drastic happens. It's a lifelong commitment, Sherlock, and there are intensive, outpatient options if you need one." From within the folder, he pulled out several pieces of paper. "This is the 12-step programme." Immediately, Sherlock's body language changed to a resistant one, and he uttered a few epithets followed by the beginning of a complaint. "Hear me out on this. File this in your flat, keep it somewhere that, if the mood ever strikes, you'll know where it is. Stapled to the top of it, is a mobile number, a hotline, 24/7 counselors available, for any reason. Once you call, there are a whole boatload of services that can be mobilised to keep you safe, get you treatment, or just talk to you for a few minutes."

"I will never use it."

"Hang on to it anyway. And I hope you never need to." John opened the file in front of him again, pulled out another sheet.

He closed his eyes in aggravation, tipping his head back and sighing loudly.

"Sherlock."

"Oh god, there's more. You never quit do you, your ridiculous questions and your papers and your bloody ..."  His voice trailed off as he realised the paper in front of him was turned around so he could read it, a biro placed on top of it. "Is this ...?"

"You can finish your complaining and whinging if you'd like, first, but yes, it is."

Discharge papers. John had already signed them, dated them as of the current day. Sherlock raised his eyes to stare at John, who stared back, pleasantly satisfied. "That's it?" The biro was in his hand, elevated over the paper.

A faint shrug. "Before you sign, make sure you understand what this means."

"I do." The moment of connection, blue eyes to dark eyes, an invisible line between them as they sat, desk between them along with many weeks of memories, events, struggles, fussing, challenges, of frustrations. Their differences, their attraction, their roles, of yearning mildly acknowledged. "Do _you_?"

"Of course. It changes everything." John eyed the paper, the pen, Sherlock's hand. "Are you sure? Because we can continue if you're not, review some of the newer options, hash out a few --"

A flair, a scratch of ink to paper, a click as the writing instrument was set down abruptly.

"Congratulations."

Neither was consciously aware of how they got there, but the ink was still very wet as they moved, the desk next to them, their toes close in proximity. John's arms, wrapped, Sherlock's returning, holding, pressing. Warm breath intermingling, their noses close, eyes dilated, skin flushed, eyes locked but for an occasional flicker to mouth as they leaned in. A faint sound, deep in John's chest, rumbled as their lips approach, and answering, a hum of appreciation reverberating from Sherlock's throat at the kiss, the touch, the intimacy. Sherlock's hand pressed between John's shoulders, John's arm dragging their waists flush, the brush of feet seeking real estate. An inhale, and then warm lips met, gently and tender at first, then slightly firmer, pressing. Relief settled over John, then, at the freedom to do this, finally. He could feel tension dissipating in one sense, yet building in another, of a desire to be closer still. It was an expression of fondness, of compassion, caring, and a distant awareness of need. John's eyes were open wide, Sherlock's half mast, and their lips parted in the kiss, the faintest, timid approach of tongue, of a deepening expression. Sherlock's eyes drifted closed, and John's hand splayed out behind him, feeling the faint muscles moving with posture adjustments, of respiration, ribs expanding, of the way Sherlock's feet spread a bit to bring their heights more closely aligned.

"I have wanted to do that for so long," John breathed, pulling away just enough to speak even as he rested his face against Sherlock's, unwilling to accept any distance for the moment.

"We snuck a few in, you realise."

"And it was killing me, knowing we shouldn't, I shouldn't." Another snog, warm, friendly, a promise that now it was happening, appropriate, it was something to be revisited frequently. "Now," John breathed, taking a small step back as he exhaled. "Dinner, I believe, is in order."

Sherlock grinned. "On Mycroft's card."

He was already shaking his head. "No, I returned it." Sherlock was ready to point out the stupidity of that, but John was ready. "I will give him no reason to complain, and I refuse to be indebted."

"That was foolish. We could have had an extravagant, expensive meal --"

"Oh, we still are. I have plans." John's hand grabbed Sherlock's bicep, pulled them together again, another kiss, a lick, a faint scraping of teeth and stubbled jaws and heat. "I have good plans, though maybe not with the exorbitant price tag."

Coats, light switch, inner office door closing, the end of a season. And the beginning of a whole new one.

"Wait," Sherlock said, grabbing at John's arm. They had not yet crossed the hallway to the outer door that led to the street. "Just, please, before we ... " John placed his hand over Sherlock's that was gripping his coat. "Can we do that again?"

The smile felt so natural, and John chuckled as he wrapped his arms around Sherlock again. "Oh yes," he murmured. "Absolutely." His lips descended again, pressing hard against Sherlock's bowed mouth, not nearly gentle as before. His hand came around Sherlock's head, twisting neatly into the dark curls, pulling him close. Their mouths, insistent. Breathing, hard. Sherlock swept aside the opening of his coat to allow for their bodies to be closer, their heat palpable even through the layers of clothing. Sherlock's mouth slid to John's jaw, pressing in toward his neck, and John heard a breathless whisper, _"Oh god, yes,"_ and thought it must have been him that spoke it. He turned his head firmly back toward Sherlock's, their mouths finding each other again.

++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John certainly paid his dues for his happiness. He certainly has earned the right to enjoy a satisfying life of exactly what he wants and deserves for all his troubles. They both have baggage, scars, a history, insecurity, and uncertainty. And yet together, they are stronger, complimentary, because they understand each other. This chapter was supposed to go longer but reached a good stopping point, and so I said, well, I suppose so, extended the chapter count, and am hitting post now.
> 
> Luke 6:38 English Standard Version (ESV): Give, and it will be given to you. Good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over, will be put into your lap. For with the measure you use it will be measured back to you.  
> ++
> 
> Posting a little quick on this chapter, less time to check "one last time" for little nuances I want to change, RL responsibility calls, but I so wanted to share this. Please, as always, let me know gingerly if there something that slipped by me or remains unclear. I'll read over again in the next few days and clean up what I might find. Response has been so fantastic, I so appreciate all who have read and commented, thank you all so much.
> 
> ++
> 
> Alessia Cara, Scars to Your Beautiful. Check it out, [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Em7vc8NWUNY).


	21. Domestic Bliss, Domestic Blitz!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's cover art now. Check it out under works inspired by this one. I am in awe!

Once on the kerb, Sherlock hesitated, wondering which direction they would be proceeding, specifics about the evening in front of them still unknown.

"I have to say," John mentioned, enjoying the fresh air and the newness of their togetherness, "this feels nice. The opportunity, to have dinner without ..."

"Your rigid, immovable boundaries." There was a twinkle in his eye as he issued the observation.

"I was going to say obligations, unfinished business."

"Okay." Sherlock smiled again, a heartfelt smattering of laugh lines about his mouth, eyes. "I still stand by my own opinion."

"I'd be worried if you didn't."

"I would agree that it does feel, perhaps, different." He narrowed an eye, still watching John, both of them smiling faintly. "Lighter."

Another pause, as John considered the many facets of the word Sherlock'd chosen. "Explain please?"

"Less of a burden. Moving on, is all."

"Moving past, I agree." Together they stood, arms not quite touching. "You sure you're okay with dinner tonight. I don't mean to rush you."

"Rush? Good lord, John. I've been anticipating this quite a long time. Since before you handed me a packet of lube and left me alone in the bedroom."

"You realise why I didn't stay to uh, ... help you."

"Your bloody morals, of course, which you've been harping on about forever."

"You still seem a bit hesitant."

"I'm waiting for you to declare which direction we're going, so I can immediately deduce exactly where we're going for dinner." John smiled at his confidence, took a step. "Oh, that's brilliant too. Your flat, then."

"Long as you're okay with it?" He'd tidied up, prepared a simple meal that would only require a few minutes in the oven, chilled the sauvignon blanc, and just needed his dining companion and everything would be ready.

"John, seriously," he began, "my only concern is exactly _what_ ," and he emphasised the word, "is on the menu, both as an entree and for dessert."

"You don't eat dessert. Hardly ever," John pointed out, somber, eyes sparkling, as they fell into step together. Sherlock had shortened his steps a bit without thinking about it, while John's long strides came somewhat naturally.

"Exactly." Sherlock turned a predatory eye in John's direction. "That doesn't mean that I'm against some sort of dessert tonight."

John smiled back. "Looking forward to it."

From under the sleeve of Sherlock's long coat, his fingers brushed against John's quickly, twined together, and let go again.

++

"I expected more ..." Sherlock said, having entered the flat only two steps before stopping, looking around, coat and gloves still on as he perused the sitting room. "Just, _more_."

"More stuff, more furniture, more clutter, what?"

"A more dramatic statement, I suppose." He noted the lack of much wall art, the absence of throw pillows, the few personal items. "More you."

John smiled. "It is me. It is a statement of how I choose to live."

"Well, obviously you do not feel the need to impress potential clients here, nor do you ever entertain as a successful, local London physician."

"Sends a statement, as I said."

"And tells what matters to you? Bland, unimaginative?" Sherlock was teasing, though John thought there might have been an element of truth too.

"Military. Minimalist, I suppose. More stuff is more to take care of, more to clean," and John paused as Sherlock had indeed entered the room, brushing a glove across one of the few shelves, lifting his finger to note the presence of a very fine trail of dust. "See what I mean? Why would I want more?"

Sherlock shrugged, smiling, pocketing his gloves. "No problem. It'll mean less to pack up and move to Baker Street."

Chuckling, John shook his head. "You're nothing if not single-minded."

"About almost everything," Sherlock breathed in solemn agreement at first, then waggled his eyebrows suggestively, letting his eyes flick down John's frame.

"We are not moving in together, by the way, not anytime soon."

"I could have Mycroft figure out how to get you evicted from this place."

"Sherlock."

"Or an undetectable fire nearby, something that wouldn't ruin your things, just make the building uninhabitable." He tapped his mouth thoughtfully. "An anonymous complaint to the London Health Board should suffice."

"Don't."

"Or just move your belongings one day while you're at work. Change the locks, leave you a key." He seemed ready to continue to find creative ways to meet his goal. "Move your stuff _back_ in, by the way. You lived there before."

"That was different."

"Technically, maybe."

"Let's get through dinner first."

"First?" he asked, his voice low and sultry. "I was thinking perhaps we could have dessert first."

"Except that I'm hungry."

Sherlock's smile was radiant, confident, and almost made John feel a bit weak at the knees. "Me too." He snickered. "I would almost think that you're dragging your feet intentionally. Are you not interested, then?" Blue eyes stared saucily back at John.

"Oh, no, very interested. But I meant it when I said that I don't think we should rush."

"Rushing would have been me signing those discharge papers, and then whisking everything off your desk and having a quick shag right there."

"So anything beyond that is --"

"Extreme patience."

"I thought you might like to look around here, first. I mean, I've lived with you, seen quite a bit, got to know you in your environment. Thought you might like to see me here."

"Is that another version of, you show me yours and I'll show you mine?"

Lips pressed together, John let his eyes fall closed. Part of him was just ready to give in, let Sherlock have what he wanted - what they both wanted - and move forward. But he really, emphatically, didn't want to rush either, this first time. "Kitchen's through here," he said, gesturing through the one room to where it turned a bend into his small, utilitarian kitchen.

"Great, yeah, yeah, loo over there, bedroom's past that?"

John smiled, taking control of the evening firmly. "I'm putting dinner in the oven, then will be glad to give you a tour of the rest of the place." The sulk was quite obvious on Sherlock's face. "It's too important to rush through this part, yeah? I'm not saying no, I'm saying not yet."

Sherlock watched him set the temperature, load a foil-wrapped dish, and set a timer. "You're ridiculous. You are a ridiculous man." Sherlock stood, one hand on a hip, watching. "Are you really saying that you want food over ... other things we could be doing?"

John ignored that. "I'm making a salad, would you like one?"

"God no." Sherlock seemed quite put out. "You're being difficult on purpose. Because you can."

"And so are you."

"You know I'm going to get my way. You might as well just resign yourself to that."

"I'm saying," John said, eyes sparkling as he leaned close, "that there's pleasure to be had in drawing things out, in savouring the moment, in anticipation."

"Which could just as easily happen the second, or third, or the hundredth time too, you realise."

"Agreed. But I believe very firmly that the first time should be a little more special than that. This ... _You_ mean enough to me that I want to make our first time something special."

"You are the biggest sap I've ever met. God, Watson, you're a hopeless romantic." His tossing in of John's last name added a bit of a harsh feel to the jibe.

"There are no flowers here, I'll point out. No chocolate. No champagne. I had been planning to light the candle on the table, but ..."

"Oh no, no candle."

John chuckled. "You know the more you push me, the more stubborn I will likely become."

With a sassy flair, Sherlock stood tall, rubbed his hands together as if anticipating something heavenly. "Then, John, by all means. Please, let the tour commence," he said, intensely dramatic and mildly irritated. With a long arm, he gestured down the hallway into the depths of John's flat.

"Salad, first. Still turning it down?"

When Sherlock didn't answer for the few moments it took for John to get some things out of the refrigerator, John turned to face him, a questioning look about him. Sherlock half smiled, half frowned, and spoke. "I think," he paused, "I think I'm actually offended that you're insisting on this."

"You shouldn't be." John spoke matter-of-factly. "I would have hoped that you'd actually have been flattered." He pointed some greens toward the empty bowl, and Sherlock shook his head. "Think about it. It would be easy to just, you know," and he jerked his head toward the hallway that led to the rest of the flat. "This way, there's more mystery, more wondering. Another clue for one of your cases. We will most definitely get there, and enjoy it. We do have all night."

"You should recall that I like to observe, to do. And that patience isn't my strong suit."

"Yes, but you're teachable." John smiled, and Sherlock made a face, looked away but with less aggravation and more amusement. A bit of chopping, and shortly he placed a solitary bowl of greens and other vegetables on the table. "The tour's not exciting, but I can show you around if you'd like."

"Seems arguing with you tonight is a pointless waste of good energy."

"Teachable, as I said." John dried his hands again, tossed a towel over to land on the counter, and approached Sherlock again. "Ah, the voice of reason emerges." He brought hands up, slid them along Sherlock's upper chest, moving toward his hair, clearly intent on sharing another kiss.

Abruptly, Sherlock grabbed at John's hands, holding him at the distance they stood apart, leaning his head back away from John. "Absolutely not. Not until you're agreeable to continue. No stopping. No hedging, no second guessing, no negotiations."

The giggle that came from John, then, started them both laughing. "Fair enough, turning up the heat, are you?" John said quickly. "Follow me."

++

The tour of the small flat was quick. The furnishings were nice, clean, functional, a few pieces drawing some attention with a backstory or a history of where it had come from. They were standing by one of the few photos John had in the bedroom, the one of Ramin holding his picture particularly, and John was relating how nice it was to be less rattled by the knowledge, to see it every day, to know that something good had come of the cluster-fuck at the end of his army days.

Faint beeping from the kitchen, however, interrupted. "Dinner's ready."

Under his breath, Sherlock muttered, "Thank god."

"You all right with a glass of wine? White, to go with the chicken."

"Fine."

Dinner, for all the fussing during the time leading up to it, was casual and mostly relaxed. They were nearly finished when John, from under the table, felt a warm, sock-covered foot slide up to his ankle. Pausing with his fork mid-way to his mouth, he quirked an eyebrow as he glanced down in that direction. "You seem to have lost a shoe."

"For starters."

"Your foot is warm."

"There is also a significant amount of heat further up."

"Don't be crass, Sherlock. It's unbecoming."

"Like I give a royal --"

"Don't say it."

_"Fuck."_

"Nice mouth," John breathed, the teasing between them lighthearted.

"Wait until you see what I can do with it."

"Soon." He punctuated his word by taking a bite from his plate, a sip of wine, watching Sherlock's good-natured demeanor continue to stretch thin, frustrated though having a good time.

"Your bedroom is by far the nicest room here, by the way."

John smiled, agreeing silently. While the rest of the flat was utilitarian and chosen to be functional, the bedroom was more luxuriant and intended to be a haven, comfortable, a getaway. He had chosen his bedroom furniture and layout carefully. Coffee-coloured linens, thick bedding, and an area rug were offset by burgundy throw pillows. The bedframe itself, heavy, ornate honeyed walnut, accented with careful crystal lighting and a few pieces of wall art that had always reminded him of a waterfall, vibrant and bubbling. "Thank you."

"It'll fit very nicely into the bedroom on Baker Street."

"I don't think so."

"Eventually."

John sipped the sauvignon blanc again, knowing Sherlock was beyond finished his meal and that he was done as well.

"Speaking of eventually, you haven't taken a bite in approximately 90 seconds. I dare say you're finished."

John smiled, set down the wine glass. "Actually," and he'd slipped off his own shoe without Sherlock noticing and chose that moment to slide his foot against Sherlock's instep and up his ankle, tucking his toes into the cuff of Sherlock's trousers, "I dare say, we're just getting started."

Sherlock had spent enough time with John to know his usual routine, and he was quick to pick up their plates in preparation of carrying them to the sink. "I'll just --"

"Not necessary." Sherlock stopped immediately, not suspecting John's directive. "Leave them be."

"You are full of surprises tonight. Bit spontaneous, in my opinion." By the time they both stood, the mood a bit more serious, the chemistry between them growing, swelling, all four shoes had been abandoned under the table. "I trust you have a few more in store?"

"Not really." They came together there by the table, breaths and then extremities and then bodies entangling, meshing, touching wherever they could and as much as they could. "But if you're agreeable, I was thinking, maybe ..." John pulled away, all of Sherlock's attention on him, but then he leaned in close again, pressing a few kisses to his mouth, their lips and tongues meeting, pressing, tasting before he took a step back again. His hands went to his own buttons, quickly undoing, then discarding both shirt and vest to the floor and standing confidently in front of Sherlock, naked from the waist up, one arm on his hip. His breathing was deep, accentuating his chest, the way his ribs expanded as he did something as mundane as breathing.

A small gasp, quietly exhaled, _"Oh John."_ John was fairly certain Sherlock didn't even realise he'd spoken, made any sound at all.

Sherlock did not disappoint, his eyes wide, pupils dilated, hands coming out to touch, hold, tweak, and caress as much as he could. Nipples, shoulder wound, sternum, then down to John's waist, where he slid his fingers around carefully, tucking lightly into the waistband of his trousers, a tease, a promise, an agreement. "Oh, yes," Sherlock whispered, bowing his head to lick and then kiss and then blow on first one nub and then the other. Right nipple, left nipple. Clavicle. Point of John's jaw. The scar, then, received a bit more attention and worship, gentle fingers and a caress, a taste. John's breathing was heavy by the time he found his words again. "Care to return the favour?" Sherlock backed off a bit, watching John. "Disrobe for me."

"You've already seen," Sherlock said, lowering his mouth again to nudge at John's pectoral muscle then latch onto a nipple, suck hard, suck briefly. His head down, he seemed a bit self-conscious as he looked at John's muscled chest, then at his own, still clothed. "Scrawny."

"No it isn't. And it's different now. Please?" Their eyes met, held, until Sherlock nodded and John began with the buttons, unfastening swiftly and untucking from his trousers. John's hands brushed over the exposed skin, then, as Sherlock spread his arms and let John disrobe him. "Very nice." His hands skirted ribs, brushing over the smattering of chest hair, thumbs brushing over his nipples and Sherlock arched his back into John's touch, which grew firmer and elicited a harsher moan from Sherlock's now prominently displayed throat.

"I'd really like to stretch you out on that bed, you know," Sherlock said low. "Can we ...?"

John had wanted to draw things out longer, knew as soon as they crossed the threshold that it was going to happen quickly. "God yes," he breathed, held out a hand, led Sherlock down the hall.

++

A big breath, an exhaled sigh of utter tranquility, and John could feel the lithe body in his arms moving a little. His own skin was just beginning to get a little chilly as the faint sheen of sweat began to cool, evaporate. A brush of his hand along Sherlock's bare arm indicated that he was feeling the same - drying perspiration, goose flesh, cool to touch. It was a fine line between needing to touch and needing to cool off, wanting to snuggle but needing just the faintest space between them. The more their bodies cooled, the better, John thought, his hand still holding over Sherlock's arm. He dug into the mattress with his elbow and foot, pressed his body up against Sherlock's back, looking to share the warmth.

And share the moment. The intimate moment. The post-intimacy, intimate moment. John well recalled when they'd lain like this before, a few times actually, but most notably in the endoscopy suite at the hospital. His presence, his care, and his quiet, gentle coaching had made a way for Sherlock to tolerate a medical procedure. He'd kissed the back of Sherlock's shoulder then, thinking him well-sedated. He found out later that somehow, Sherlock had been aware of it. He leaned close, briefly, let his lips press against the skin on front of him just once.

"I don't think I can move," Sherlock breathed, turning his head to look back over his shoulder at John.

"No one's asking you to," John said, giving in to the want, the desire, the freedom to touch again, pressing lips against what he could reach - shoulder, angle of jaw.

"Finally." He didn't need to elaborate. "You need a few minutes until we can go again?"

"I thought you just said you couldn't move." John's voice was low and deep as he chuckled. "Make up your mind." 

"Maybe more than a few." Sherlock arched his back, seeking the skin-to skin connection with John as he did. "But with your advanced age..."

"I dare say I can keep up with you." John pressed another kiss to the back of Sherlock's head, his hand rubbing softly and warm against Sherlock's ribs. "But there's no rush." A thumb brushed errantly against Sherlock's still peaked nipple. "You okay, little sore or anything?"

Silently, Sherlock quickly angled his head, turning to look back at John. "Are you fishing for a compliment about your size or something?"

"You know, what, never mind."

"No, not sore." Sherlock's shoulders shook a bit as he turned his head, a grin on his face, chuckling softly. "Stop worrying."

"I'm not, just wanted to make sure."

"I'm fine. Enjoyed it. Might be your turn next, if you're okay with that." The sentence raised in uncertainty as if hinting at a question.

"I like it, too, you realise. Every now and again." John pulled away just a bit, letting some air get to their skin, cooling now as heart rates fell back to normal. "It's been a while, but if you're amenable..."

"Oh, yes. I'd quite like to try it all with you."

"... and patient."

"Insert obvious reference to doctor patient relationship here."

"Oh shut it." But he was chuckling as he shifted his legs to tuck them a bit closer behind Sherlock's thighs. "Maybe a nap first?"

"You sleep, if you must. But I've been wanting this for so long, I don't want to waste any time sleeping and missing out on anything."

"Suit yourself." John's arms tightened around him, and he brushed a hand up over Sherlock's jaw, smoothing curls down a bit with his fingers. A quick tug on his pillow and he was more comfortable, secure, their bodies both beginning to relax further. "But I'm not going anywhere. And you're not missing anything by sleeping, you know."

"I'd miss out on what your skin feels like, what your body feels like as you drift to sleep, if you twitch as you change sleep phases, if you get warmer ..."

"Whether or not you're awake, I think we'll probably still be touching. So you're not missing anything."

It wasn't long before John could feel the faintest myoclonic muscle twitches of Sherlock's body finally falling asleep. He was not far behind. 

++

Their routine varied quite a bit depending on John's shifts at the clinic, Sherlock's attendance at active investigations, current scenes with DI Lestrade. It was becoming a much more regular occurrence.  They met for dinner sometimes, coffee at others, occasionally at John's flat, but more often on Baker Street.

Mostly because Sherlock seemed to get distracted more, and in his studying or browsing the internet for clues, he had - a time or two - gotten so involved that he'd missed John entirely at their rendezvous point.

Sherlock continued his quest to wear down John's resistance and reluctance to discuss moving in together, and would use anything he could to attempt to advance his case. He shamelessly used any situation to speak up about it.

John followed him around, turning off lights he left burning in his wake and commenting on it. Sherlock had an answer. "You know, if we combined living situations, they'd be much less expense. And my flat is much more central ..."

"Think of the savings in heat, resources. We'd be environmentally friendly by downsizing to one flat instead of two."

"You already keep a toothbrush here, and a few pair of pants and socks. Might as well move the rest in."

"There's probably a family waiting for a flat just like yours, who would be thrilled with it. Quite selfish of you, John, to deny them their dream dwelling."

"You realise Mycroft has probably had to hire another PA to keep tabs on both of our dwellings. It would be responsible of us to save the British government some money."

At that, John turned a glare on Sherlock. "So in order to make your brother's life easier, we should cohabitate?"

"Oh. Let me work on a different slant to that argument." 

"Don't bother. There's no reason that he should have any bearing on a decision like this."

Sherlock hesitated. "So you're admitting that there is a decision, one we can make. That there is one to be made?" There was a grin. "You've left the door open a crack, you realise."

John took a deep breath but didn't answer him again.

"Moving in together would probably please Mrs. Hudson. She asks about you regularly. Especially when I've awakened her in the middle of the night again."

One attempt a few days later began with a cryptic statement. "I think I might need to replace my mattress and boxspring." John raised his head at that beginning, considered whether Sherlock had done something to his furniture. The ash study had certainly brought about a casualty or two.

"Oh?" he prompted when Sherlock didn't immediately elaborate.

"There might have been an unfortunate incident."

"Bleach again? Tell me, please, that you didn't --"

"No, it might have been a study with a harpoon."

"A harpoon?"

"Did you know that bedding does not appear to be resistant in any way to the force of a sharp blade?"

"You stabbed your bed."

"Well, I couldn't very well stab a person."

"True."

"I texted Molly, by the way. Asked about getting access to the pathology lab."

"What?"

"To see if I could maybe ... you know, on a cadaver."

"Oh no. God, you didn't."

"She turned me down."

"Stop stabbing things. Just stop..." He brushed a tired hand over his eyes. "Let's talk about it tomorrow after dinner, yeah?"

"I'll have Mycroft send over some boxes for your things, and later, a moving company to get --"

"No. I said talk about it."

"You realise I've won? You've essentially given in."

Another sigh. A slow exhale. John shook his head, admitting to himself that Sherlock was right and that he'd worn down, given in, surrendered. He'd lasted longer than he'd predicted. "I'll have some ground rules."

"I know, you and your bloody lists --"

"Which I will share with you tomorrow. At dinner."

Sherlock didn't particularly acknowledge John's statement. Instead, he mentioned some of the technicalities of getting furniture up the stairs into his flat, at what precious few things he was willing to box up or get rid of to make room for John and his accompanying belongings. He whinged about the fact that Mycroft's name was on the lease, which would need to be removed immediately. And the locks changed. "Because lord knows, we certainly don't want him to have a key."

John well recalled the day before, when they'd been in a rather compromising position, Sherlock on his stomach, bent part way over the back of the couch, the rubbing and teasing that John had been intent on delivering, the sounds Sherlock was making. And then the sounds they'd both been making when footsteps were coming quickly up the stairs, heavy steps that had a destination and a purpose. It had been Greg, and they'd just barely managed to draw apart and set clothing to order before he knocked briskly, dropping off something for Sherlock along with a complaint that Sherlock hadn't responded to his text, and he'd gotten a bit concerned.

"Tomorrow," John reminded him as he silently agreed that perhaps changing the locks and using them wasn't a bad idea.

++ 

John brushed his hair back as the mist seemed bent on dampening everything about him. The umbrella had inverted itself in a stiff gust of wind, rendering it both useless and broken, so he'd picked up his walking pace and looked forward to getting home. He crossed the entryway quickly, removing his wet jacket and before he could even get a few steps up the stairs, Mrs. Hudson's door opened part way. Not a good sign.

"Oh, Dr. Watson, good. I'm glad you're home." Mrs. Hudson had been, as expected, quite relieved to hear that John was in the process of moving in, their logistics all worked out, closing the other flat, paperwork, and some assistance from a few friends had started the process quite well. "You're later than usual."

It was not her usual greeting. "Oh?" he asked tentatively. "Everything all right?" Quickly, he flicked his eyes upward at the now-silent flat.

"I'm not sure. There was quite a lot of noise earlier." She set her lips in a faint line of disapproval. "I knocked, asked if he was all right. Got myself a bit hollered at, I must say. Not nice at all, if you ask my opinion."

"I'm very sorry for that, Mrs. Hudson. I'll talk to him," _again_ , John breathed, then watched her nod once and disappear back into her own flat.

He keyed in, opened the door unsure of what there might be waiting for him. He never knew, and there had been a few moments of the strange, odd, and downright chaos.

Chaos, this time, John realised as soon as the door swung in. There were papers everywhere. The couch cushions had been stacked by the window, and one of them appeared to have been disemboweled. The desk drawers had been removed and set somewhere else, the telly playing with the sound off, and electrical cords run a few places that John would have been hard pressed to describe any logical reason why.

Sherlock himself, master of the whirlwind, hurricane extraordinaire, was laying on the floor, stretched out on his stomach.

He didn't appear to have fallen, no obvious signs of trauma. Was he asleep?

John had an immediate sense of dread. _He'd better be okay, better be clean and sober. Because,_ he thought to himself, _he's going to pay for this mess._

"Sherlock?" he said, dropping his belongings just inside the door there on the floor and crossing the room quickly. "Hey, you all right?"

A faint groan, and John knelt at his side. Skin colour appropriate, breathing for sure, normothermic best he could tell, and responsive to touch as John's fingers found Sherlock's carotid artery. His eyes flicked a few times, and then opened. And then opened wide. "John! You're home!" He was alarmed, and John's anxiety lessened abruptly, reaching a nadir before it would turn to annoyance. "Have you seen my notebook from that apiology seminar we went to?"

John sat back on his heels, wondering what Sherlock had got himself into now. A faint buzzing sounded from the kitchen, low and rumbling, and John's own eyes widened as he turned to look, saw nothing, and then turned back to fix his stare on Sherlock.

"You did get your epi-pen yeah?"

++

The bees were rather quickly contained (and deported), and John's former flat was now completely empty. His bedroom furniture fit the room quite nicely, and they had shifted things around quite well to accommodate assimilating two adults into the flat on Baker Street.

 John unzipped the bag, removed the last few items. Photo frame from Harry, dresser. It was still Harry, he, and their mom. Unit photo commendation, shelf. Letter from Ramin, folded. Sherlock looked over, smiled. "Guess that means you're finished moving in officially, I see."

"Last of my worldly possessions."

"Your lease is ended, then, on your flat?"

With a slight shrug. "It is. Officially. Guess we should add my name to this one."

"Planning on staying, are you?"

"You've been after me to, so ... yes. That's been the plan."

"I think it's your turn to make dinner again." They both knew John was much better at cooking, and he'd only recently accused Sherlock of sabotaging his own meals so as to get John to tackle the lion's share of the meal preps. When he did actually prepare something, he spent much of his time arguing that take-away existed for people like them who didn't have either time or inclination to cook for themselves. "It does seem to come naturally to you."

"You are practicing creative avoidance. Wait until I start ruining your laundry, throwing your silk shirts in the dryer. And my new red sweatshirt in with your precious white pants."

There was a small gasp.

"Kidding. And yes, I thought I'd stay, you know, the bedroom set is here, I guess I might as well." John smiled as Sherlock approached him, clearly headed for another snog, his hand coming out to encircle John's waist and pull them close. With an even bigger smile, John continued, "And we seem to have found some other things to entertain ourselves with."

Sherlock pulled back enough to grin back, the left side of his mouth broader and wider than the right, and he raised an eyebrow as he spoke, "Yes we have."

The sass in Sherlock's tone gave John a moments pause, then he turned back to the frame, angled it on the shelf where he wanted it. "So, flatmate, anything left you wanted to do tonight? Any concerns about cohabitating that we should talk about?"

"No concerns on this end. You're the one who wasn't too sure."

"We both have our issues." John angled the photo of Ramin again, smiled at how nicely he'd had resolution. Sherlock on the other hand, still had some cravings and restless behaviours from time to time. "You're doing well. I'm sure I don't need to call out the sniffer dogs or some of Lestrade's people to do a search or anything. I trust you."

The silence stretched a bit, and John finally glanced over to see Sherlock's expression. Sherlock's steady expression. "You can if you'd feel better."

With quiet seriousness, John simply asked, "Is it necessary?"

Matching John's tone - serious, curious, nonjudgmental - Sherlock responded with a slight shake of his head. "No." A few steps and Sherlock was standing behind John, perusing the photo of John with his unit, the one that had been part of the unit commendation for exemplary reduction in surgical complication. "There may be something stashed somewhere, but if I wanted to, there are an unlimited number of people I would reach out to. But it's irrelevant, I'm not planning on anything."

John frowned a bit, though he knew at this point that Sherlock's intentions were fairly straightforward. "Good. And please don't. Now that I'm entirely finished moving in."

They turned back to the photo of John with the medical group from his unit, one Sherlock hadn't seen, of course. He asked about the story behind it, the people John had worked with. "Just good solid folks working hard." He recalled the resultant unit pride, the affirmation of a job well done each time he looked at the framed article and photo.  _Before_ , anyway.  _After_ , he could barely stomach the reminder of the rottenness that could be hidden away where no one could see it.  _Almost._

"You miss it?"

"Some. Definitely not all. And definitely not the fighting." Or the injuries, or the progress in the name of trauma medicine because of it. "Or the knowledge that really terrible things can happen despite trying to do the right thing."

Sherlock poked at the photo frame, running his fingers over the camouflage. "Handmade, hand-painted frame."

"My sister Harry, before I shipped out. Photo's from the induction ceremony, my swearing-in. My mum was so happy that day, even knowing I'd be deployed." There was a sad smile but a peaceful one as he brushed his fingers over the lower corner, where Harry had carefully blended in her initials, obscured to a casual viewer. "I hadn't wanted any reminders for quite a while when I was discharged."

John finished emptying the bag, setting a few things on the top of the chest. Sherlock focused on the metal chain that John's dog tags still hung upon, flipping it over so he could read John's name and ID numbers. "You don't wear tags anymore?"

"Since the day they became unnecessary." He shrugged. "Absolutely nothing wrong with civilian life."

With a quick reach, Sherlock took the tags, draped them over John's head, tugged at the neckline so that they fell beneath his shirt. "I kind of like them, knowing they're there." And he pulled the shirt loose, peered down at them, brushing the backs of his fingers down over John's pectoral muscle, the nub beneath. "Very nice." The mood took an upswing, lightening. Sherlock let his hand drift to John's collar. "Might like to see that uniform some day. On you, briefly anyway."

John chuckled mostly to himself. "Careful what you wish for. I put that on, you might find yourself needing to follow orders."

Sherlock tried to turn away before the longing, the pining was evident, the nostril flare, the pupil dilation, the flush of colour, the attempt at hiding. But John saw anyway. Oh yes, John saw.

++

John had spent a few minutes working on his online scheduling programme, choosing shifts and dates at the surgery. He found that he preferred working three long days and having the rest of the time off for whatever Sherlock had going, whatever they could do together.

"Do you have any other patients from before?" Sherlock glanced at the calendar on the computer screen. "Who might need to see you?"

"A few, most of them have long moved on and there is no additional need. On the off chance I would need coverage, I could likely flex my schedule for an appointment."

"Yeah, I guess Molly can't help anymore with that."

"No, not really, she's taking boards soon. But there are temp agencies if something big came up, and I would hand select a few who would work within what my program used to be like, on the off chance it was needed." He paused. "Doubtful at this point."

Sherlock smiled. "I'm relieved. It would be hard, knowing what you might be up against. What another patient might put you through."

"Let me reassure you that I had never encountered someone like you, the connection that we had. So rest assured that it is very unusual to maintain contact."

"Or move in together?" Sherlock tilted sideways on the couch, letting his feet come up to where John's hands had come off the computer. "Or perhaps other activities that people find entertaining."

"That too." John set the laptop aside, his hands then coming to rest along Sherlock's ankles, thumbs brushing firmly over the thick bones, the muscled feet. "I can think of nothing better than to end that part of my career, I suppose, with an amazing success story." He grinned, sidled up against Sherlock, his body pressing closer to him, arms wrapping easily around him, one over his thighs, the other pulling their chests closer together. Sherlock dipped his head down, their lips touching, breath mingling, tongues becoming entwined.

"Amazing, yeah?"

"You know what else is amazing?" John's thumb brushed over Sherlock's cheekbones, thinking about how striking his features were.

"Yes, your face when you ..."

"Sherlock! Yes, that too."

"Will you put your glasses on, pretend to be one of my professors --" There had been discussion over the previous weeks of Sherlock resuming his chemistry classes, finishing his degree. John had been strongly supportive, encouraging him to at least try one class. He'd signed up for an asynchronous online section of advanced chem and was so far enjoying it. "Perhaps I've been late with an assignment ..."

"Oh stop. Your fantasies are ..."

"Linked to your dog tags, and your glasses. Seriously John, please?"

"Slow down. Keep your wits about you. Your academic life is quite separate from this."

"But you don't understand, John, those glasses. You don't need them, and for you to wear them in a brochure was manipulative. Marketing."

"Says the man who managed to charm his way out of multiple predicaments."

"And out of the grade markdown for the last paper I turned in a few days late." An eyebrow raised in conjunction with his smile as John watched. "Simply emailed the prof and explained that there'd been a family emergency, worked a little emotion into the words, a sob story about how ill my uncle was and how much he meant to me. No big deal."

"Did you really?"

"Of course. It was done, the paper, but I kind of forgot to submit it, and then ..."

"Stop it. You need to stay on top of your schoolwork."

"On top? Okay. If you say so." He chuckled, began to stand up as if he would proceed to drag John down the hall toward the bedroom. "I could be persuaded."

"No. I mean, you need to get stuff done or take the consequences." John hesitated, taking in all of Sherlock's face that seemed to scream that John's suggestion was ridiculous. "Sometimes when you screw up, make a mistake, you have to deal with it."

"And sometimes," Sherlock said, still standing and tugging at John's arm in the direction of the bedroom, "you can work things out so that you don't get in trouble for things."

"Sometimes." John resisted again just briefly, then decided this was not one of the battles he would choose, because, seriously, what was the point of that. "You're a manipulative bastard."

"Says the man who seems to find certain kinds of _manipulation_ rather invigorating. Arousing, you might say." Sherlock's long fingers reached for John's collar, slid along the muscles of his chest, pausing briefly on his belt buckle then reaching slightly lower through the fabric of his trousers.

"Please," he protested but feebly. "Oh, yeah, just like that," he breathed as Sherlock's fingers found a zipper, reached inside. There were some collective gasps just before Sherlock sealed his mouth over John's words. 

 ++

The room was dark, comfortable. Both men in soft tee shirts and pyjamas, comfortable and relaxed, were actually going to bed at the same time for a change. As was their usual practice, John lay supine, with Sherlock wriggling and adjusting and inserting himself into the spaces and nooks of John's body until they were nearly meshed together, the angles and valleys and muscles finding those familiar spots of security. Beneath John's fingers, he could feel the faintest outlines, barely ridges, of Sherlock's back through his shirt.

Another letter had come from Ramin, a glowing report that things were still going quite well, that he was excelling at school and fully healthy. The letters didn't come often, but when they did, it always gave John a few moments of remembrance, of hard memories even as he knew things were overwhelmingly positive.

"You're quiet," Sherlock observed. "Is it the letter? Or something else?"

"Just thinking, I guess. The letter of course." He lay easily, and arm around Sherlock, their bodies comfortable and familiar. "Just thinking about the misconduct report I filed."

"I see. I told you that I'd read it."

"You read the cleaned up version."

"Oh?"

"There's no way to accurately describe what I saw." John's eyes were wide, staring up at the ceiling, enjoying the proximity of Sherlock and their enmeshed lives. Sherlock made a faint noise in his throat, somewhere between _I'm listening_ and _go ahead and explain_. "God, Sherlock, you should have seen the damage, the bleeding, the tearing. Haemorrhage." John took a small breath, remembering how Ramin had trembled, the fear in his face, the pain he'd been subjected to at such a young age. "He was terrified, poor Ramin."

"The sergeant's lucky you didn't do worse to him."

"I should have. I wanted to." John opened his eyes, closed them, despite the darkness of the room and the darkness behind his eyelids he couldn't get away from the images. "You can never un-see something like that. And Ramin was so brave. By all rights, he could have ..." Sherlock's arms tightened, and though John was actively attempting relaxation, he could still feel the shaking, the trembling as he breathed. John changed tacks, back to the facts and away from the infection, the peritonitis that didn't happen, where it was easier to compartmentalize. "His parents almost didn't allow the surgery, the repair. You know it was a colostomy at first?" and Sherlock was nodding quickly, so quickly, and John knew it was to avoid any more details. "Can you imagine being, what, not even ten, and having that to deal with? So not only did he survive the surgery, but managed to get connected with a skilled surgeon who did the take-down. The reversal."

"And he's doing well." There was a brush of Sherlock's hand over John's sternum, a tap, a reminder, a focusing device.

"He is, you're right."

"Thanks to you."

"And thanks to all the other people who helped." John's fingers tapped out a faint, mindless rhythm on Sherlock's shoulder. "Including Mycroft and his long-armed connections."

"That you started."

"My CO advised me not to file the report."

"Why would he do something like... Oh.  _Oh._ " And Sherlock understood. "He knew something was going to happen."

"He could only protect me so far. Orders come down, and he had to follow them too."

"He was right, he couldn't help you. So that's why Mycroft made sure to get the ... general or whatever he was too."

"Lieutenant Colonel, or something, but yes, early retirement." John didn't specifically care the reasons or the motivation; he was just glad he was also out of active duty and the positioned that facilitated his abuse of his power. "A forced, early retirement."

"Thank god." There was an easy silence for a bit, and finally Sherlock pressed back to look at John, even though the room was so dark that they could hardly make out the glitter of eyes or the profile of the face. "So," he began, "if you had the decision to do over, would you make the same one?"

"Absolutely." There was such steadiness in the answer, quickly delivered, confident.

"Even though it cost you dearly. Almost your life."

"It was the right thing to do." John could feel the tension in Sherlock's body. "I can't imagine I'll be making decision of that magnitude anytime soon. Tomorrow is filled with choices about what to have for lunch, and maybe what shoes to wear."

John chuckled; Sherlock did not. "It's not a laughing matter."

"Are you worried?" John asked, pulling Sherlock quite flush against him. "Because don't. I'm not going anywhere. And you're fine."

A quiet sigh, a shoulder tightening and relaxation with the next breath, one of the biofeedback techniques they'd worked on. "You know, I think you worry about it too."

"What shoes I'm going ..."

"Oh seriously, shut it." Sherlock hissed. "No, you worry too. I can almost always tell, because your fingers get tighter along some of the more noticeable scars on my back."

It was the first Sherlock had even acknowledged their existence. John briefly stilled his fingers, realising that, at least this time, Sherlock was right. Some of the patterns, the scarring, was familiar. His fingers knew some of the ridges, the pucker along some of the deeper ones, just because he'd learned them, memorised them. He could recognise the pattern of the right scapula vs the left, the one particularly deep one across his right posterior ribs. "I'm sure I do, of course. I didn't realise... I'm sorry, and I'll stop if it bothers you."

"It's okay. And you've done it on my ankle too, a very long time ago. My hand that day at the concert. You're very tactile, it's comforting to you even as you comfort someone else."

Feeling self-conscious then, John licked his lips, stopped all movements. "Sorry."

"Stop, I like it. If I didn't, I'd tell you. But you seem most driven by the shoulders when you're fretting and trying not to show it."

"They had to hurt like crazy."

"I told you the story, that mission for Mycroft. Delivering a message, and got out of hand."

"Yes, I remember."

He described the way he'd hung up on Mycroft and shattered the mobile when they'd finally connected the call. "Talk about a death wish, that was my life then."

"And you couldn't possibly have understood all the reason for it, either."

"I didn't. Makes sense now."

"Thank you for telling me, Sherlock, after all this time that still has to be a pretty terrible memory."

"Some of it is vague."

"You'd let me know if it bothers you." He brushed his fingertips over Sherlock's shoulder, the left one, with the diagonal overlapping scar pattern.

"Do you still think I'd shut up about something I found annoying?"

"I think you might hold those cards close to your chest until it suited you, yes."

"Can I barter my present power dynamic, my psychological advantage, for an evening of your fatigues and dog tags?"

Sherlock's head was close to John's, close enough to hear the intake of breath, the silent laughter, the quick breathing. "I suppose that could certainly be arranged."

"Have mercy," Sherlock breathed. "Now?"

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow." The breathy word was full of anticipation and a shiver of excitement.

John didn't want to ignore the anxiety earlier, the fear that Sherlock had expressed, and pressed a kiss to his temple before speaking again. "You know, both of us make decisions, hard decision. Yours," and he hesitated, knowing that they both associated the word decision to the conversation that long while ago as one of the Ds of recovery. Delay, distract, decision, had been the progression, "are just as serious, with just as many repercussions as the ones I make. Used to make. Will have to make again perhaps."

"Decisions can get a person into a dangerous predicament."

"You say dangerous, and I would agree." John brushed a thumb lightly over Sherlock's mouth before turning so that their lips were close. "And here we both are." 

"Do you have any interest in active duty again? On some other kind of assignment? I could ask Mycroft..."

"No. Not interested."

"You're not avoiding it because of fear or anxiety?"

"Are you trying to find out if I need exposure therapy?"

"I would help you if you did."

"You just really like the fatigues."

"I don't know yet, haven't seen them on. Right now it's just fantasy. Maybe." There was a brief moment where Sherlock's lips pursed slightly and his head turned to the side, followed by an errant, one-sided half-smile. "Or I think I may really like taking them off you."

John chuckled, his arms tightening around him again. "Tomorrow."

++

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much longer, our favourite pair finally together on Baker Street, a few loose ends to work through.
> 
> I expect the next chapter to keep me awake nights until it is written. I mean, who doesn't love some Captain Watson in fatigues, military ID, tight tee shirt, boots, and a smile. I'm fairly certain Sherlock will quickly meet Captain Watson who will eventually end up still wearing only the smile and the tags.
> 
> Let's turn up the heat, shall we?


	22. Tomorrow

In the vaguely dim light of the bedroom, Sherlock's hand hovered over John's arm, undecided. After a moment, he let it fall again without touching.

"Maybe we could hold off until tomorrow," Sherlock breathed later under cover of darkness as they were both safely ensconced in bed. It had been a relatively quiet evening, a bit of telly, a visit from Mrs. Hudson bringing them a plate of biscuits, a rainstorm that certainly kept them from venturing out unless something had been absolutely necessary.

And Sherlock's request - granted - for an evening of John in his fatigues.

"We can. A night of abstinence doesn't sound like a bad idea if that's something you'd prefer."

"You're sure you'll survive?"

"I'm sure. Although we have both rather enjoyed this yeah?" Shifting a bit under the blanket, John could see a pleasant smile, wide eyes, but not much else in the faint light. "Regular orgasms I mean."

"Don't talk about it too much."

"Keep from getting too excited?"

"Shh. He'll hear you. And you already said the O word." He spoke in a hushed, stage whisper.

"You're fine." John chuckled, straightening the pillow under his head as he gingerly tucked his foot under Sherlock's calf. "So, about tomorrow, anything I should know? Anything specific you're after? Some, I don't know, kink or fantasy?"

"Of course not."

"Think carefully, though. I mean, I'm willing to consider a lot, but if you have certain expectations or something you're really hoping for, I just don't want you to be disappointed, okay?"

"I won't be disappointed. But, no, there's nothing." A quiet pause, only breathing and distant city noise from outside beyond the flat. "You mentioned, before, maybe following orders, and, well, that might be ... all right. But, no, nothing else." Another hesitation, and Sherlock continued, low and cautious. "This won't be upsetting for you, will it? I didn't think, I mean, if you don't ..." 

"I'm good, looking forward to it." He blinked hard a few times, his mind whirling with new opportunity. "I get off work at five, hopefully not too much past that."

"And I'm planning on being unavailable to the Met after that time as well."

"Hopefully the seedier criminals and thugs in the city don't find out you're unavailable."

"As if." He said, his leg wriggling over John's toes, enjoying the sensation of touch without being escalating. "I guess, actually," there was a restless turning from the opposite pillow, "I was thinking, now that you mention it, maybe we could start off by going for a walk, have dinner out somewhere, some place public?"

"Okay, any specific reas--"

"I just think it'd be nice, not just here, but out where there might be interesting reactions of others, who see you. Who see us, together is all." He had answered quickly, talking fast, uncomfortable and less confident. "We don't have to."

"Why, Sherlock Holmes, are you looking to show off a bit?" John chuckled and then grew reassuring. "And it's fine, by the way. You observe, so it makes perfect sense you want to be somewhere around people. The human zoo of any big city." A restless movement of Sherlock's legs, a shift on the pillow, and John wondered that he could still be so reluctant to ask for something. "To show off, a little?"

"No."

"To show _me_ off?"

"Oh god, stop talking." The voice was a whisper.

"No, it's fine. I'm flattered, I guess. But it's..." John let the unfinished sentence hang there, not wanting Sherlock to be any more uncomfortable than he already was. He did reach out then, his hand brushing soothingly over Sherlock's arm. "It's absolutely okay. I don't mind at all." John pressed up on an elbow, leaning over. "Just tell me what you want, if there is anything." Two pairs of eyes glittered, both attentive. "Even if it strikes you just in the moment, okay?

"You do the same, just in case, there's --"

John pressed up on an elbow. He found Sherlock's mouth, and interrupted his words, kissing him soundly, deeply, just long enough and then pulled away with a twinge of regret. "Tomorrow, then." One more snog, brief, before it could escalate into something hotter and heavier. "G'night."

++

Sherlock was already up and out of the flat when John awakened. A few inspired moments, a thought gone wayward, and he packed a small duffel to take to work with him. The day was full for John with patients scheduled, the office overbooked, an afternoon emergency averted with some intense telephone triage "Call an ambulance or go to the A&E." He handled a few critical issues, flexed to help cover another provider's backlog. All in all, it was a day that was as - blessedly - distracting as it could possibly have been.

His final patient left, and John stretched in his office satisfied and expectant of a great evening. He smiled to himself, anticipation simply running through him, thrilling on levels he hadn't expected. A quick shower in the office (primarily for body fluid emergencies but useful to him at the moment), and he donned clothing that he'd brought with him. As requested - khaki tee shirt, boots, army issue cargo trousers - the works.

A text, sent after careful choosing of the words, to his flatmate:

**Meet me at six at the Rooftop Bar on the Square. Do not make me wait. Cpt J Watson, RAMC ret.**

It was read almost immediately. The ellipsis struck for a few moments, typing, more typing, editing perhaps, deleting, crafting the message in return, more typing, and then finally resolved.

**Yes sir.**

_Well done_ , John did not send in return, though he wanted to. Smiling, John left his bag of gear locked in his office at the clinic, bringing only himself, jacket, and mobile with him to meet Sherlock. He smiled all the way to the bar. 

++

A rooftop table tucked into the corner of the rear of the outdoor establishment, open air yet under cover, multiple heaters already in use, the people milling about helping to alleviate the chill of the open air establishment. John could see the door, could tell the instant Sherlock arrived at three minutes before deadline. His eyes sought out the room quickly, panning, settling on John with an excitement and a thrill and obvious high energy.

As requested, John was in fatigues and Sherlock, his typical long coat over bespoke trousers, button front short open at the neck. He was still holding leather gloves, more for show than anything, although John knew he hated it when his fingers got cold. Comfortable leather shoes completed the outfit. But they both knew it wasn't specifically about what _he_ was wearing.

The host nodded, gestured, and Sherlock moved carefully, smoothly in John's direction. John rose as Sherlock approached, his coat over the back of the chair he'd occupied. As he stood, he could feel Sherlock appraising, a brow raising in appreciation as he took in the faded khaki tee shirt, left breast pocket, the cotton worn soft from multiple wearings and washings. And it clung in all the right places. The canvas belt blended into the camo trousers replete with multiple functional, large pockets, cargo style. Empty tonight, the pockets used to hold gear, supplies, occasionally meds or bandages. The trouser material was worn, too, not quite as soft as the shirt, but clinging in all the right places. John's mobile rested carefully in the outer left leg pocket, his keys in the pocket beneath that. His wallet and a few bills rested in the right rear pocket. The pants were tapered, tucked into dark boots, steel tipped, working boots. John could well recall the miles walked in them, the times he'd scrubbed them, the multiple insects or desert critters they'd stomped on, the soles still as solid as they day they'd been issued. He could also recall the times the boots had been shoved quickly into boot covers for surgery, the times that the blood stains needed scrubbing.

The dog tags rested underneath the tee shirt, the bulge of the jewellery between well-defined pectorals.

John was certain it would be emancipated from beneath the fabric later, but for now, he wanted it subtly visible and not obvious.

They were both hesitant, uncertain. "Any trouble finding the place?" John asked.

"No."

"Glad you made it in time."

"Part of me didn't want to, curious what the repercussions might have been." A brief nasal flare of excitement, and Sherlock's cheeks flushed at the admission as he smiled a bit broader. 

"Best not to test those waters just yet, in my opinion."

"Yeah, I opted to behave for the moment."

"Good choice." John smiled then, keeping his distance although he would have liked a brief hug or peck on the cheek as they did from time to time. "Can I get you a drink?"

"Just a soda, I think."

With a quick nod, John gestured to the open chair at the table and moved confidently to the bar to place an order for two cokes. He knew without needing to look that Sherlock's eyes were boring through him from across the room. The bartender glanced at him, at the table he'd occupied. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan. You?" John could easily identify the carriage, the demeanor. Something about having served, been at war, left a person a bit able to see the commonality. John thought it must be something about seeing so much pain.

"Couple tours on a nuc sub." There was a grin. "Kind of similar settings here, just fresher air is the biggest difference."

A brief chuckle. "I think I'd get claustrophobic."

"We all do, a little." He set the drinks in front of John. "Thanks for your service, mate, if no one's told you lately. On the house."

"Same to you." John tucked a generous tip under the mat, smiled his thanks, and carried both back to where Sherlock was waiting. After taking a seat, Sherlock eyed the drink and spoke, a bit nervously, "I trust you're not going to ask me if I come here often. Or some other inane pickup line."

"No." John picked up his glass, tapping it lightly against Sherlock's as he drank. "Relax. We're just out to enjoy an evening."

There was a more familiar gleam in Sherlock's eye as he mimicked John, then let his eyes lower over John's shirt, arms, and even the legs partially tucked under the table. "I can do that."

After that, they did end up sharing a few stories from the day, catching up and at times, comfortable lulls in their conversation. John ended up checking his watch after a bit, and then grinned at him again. "So, as requested, well, our plans. If we leave in a few minutes, we can take a little detour through a little street market I found on the way to where we're having dinner."

"All right." Sherlock seemed more serious than usual. "I should let you know, too, that this," he let his foot come forward to tap on John's boot as his hand gestured  down his body, "works very well. It's uh, very... "

At the uncharacteristic flustered words, John couldn't help the chuckle. "It's okay to just speak it, you know. Just say it."

"It's ... good. Very good." A faint flush crept up his neck, settling on his ears, cheekbones.

"Was that so hard?" John asked, then upon hearing his own words and seeing Sherlock's brows raise, he realised. "I mean, was it hard to say."

Sherlock was already laughing. "Not yet, but the night is young."

++

The market was still fairly full of people, milling about, a few stores having brought some more special items to the kerb for a special evening outing. They wandered along one side of the street and back up the other, just pausing to browse at a few things. John, for the most part, was keeping a bit of a cautious eye on Sherlock and what he seemed to be wanting, which seemed mostly to be the way he moved, who spoke to him first, how others reacted to him. In order to make the most of it, John did end up carrying his jacket, leaving his tee shirt, which was still rather form fitting, and the night wasn't too cold so it wasn't a hardship. Although he didn't usually pay attention, with Sherlock watching both him and others at the moderately full market, he did notice some looks, eye contact, the occasional comment.

"Seen enough?" John asked as they approached the end of the section.

"Not by far," Sherlock said with a smirk.

"You know what I meant."

"I did. And yes, I suppose." The kerb thinned out in people, but there were still quite a few pedestrians about, and with Sherlock's statement, John consulted his mobile for the time again.

"We don't have to rush, but it's a few minutes walk from here." He took Sherlock's hand, casually, watching to see his reaction, if it made him uncomfortable. It seemed mostly just to surprise him. "Is this okay with you?" His eyes flicked down to their joined hands.

"Yes, uh... of course." Sherlock fell into step with John as he added, "Long as you're okay with it. I like it. Quite a bit actually." A few squeezes of his fingers and they continued that way, a slow, easy pace, enjoying the stretch of the evening still to come. He described a few of the topics he was researching on one of the active cases he had, and eventually needed both hands to fully describe something. John let his hand drop, his fingers lightly playing across Sherlock's as their hands slid across palms until their fingertips parted. His fingers briefly brushed across Sherlock's back from shoulder downward as he widened the distance between them.

A few questions later, and Sherlock grew quiet again, but his eyes remained active, watching John, eyeing the street and the surroundings. John took an elbow, guided him along a turn into a different street. "So, you haven't asked where we're headed."

"Doesn't matter, really. I trust you." Another smile, a devilish one. "My criteria was already quite nicely fulfilled, thank you very much. The rest is kind of up to you."

"It's actually nowhere fancy or expensive, where neither of us will particularly stand out given the disparity in our attire." John had slid his coat on by this point in the cool evening air. "Made a couple inquiries, found out a nice place, a bar actually, but a frequent haunt of some of the local RAMC guys, sent a text message to an old unit mate who's now stationed in the city, he's the one who told me, said he might stop by just to say hello if we are still there later."

"Okay," Sherlock said but he seemed timid again.

"Dinner is just us, though. I'm not looking to share that with anyone else. Not tonight."

The seating area was mostly wood and leather, ornate brass trimmings, with an informal bar area against one side of the room. There were long tables on the other, a pool table, dart board, and some high-tops with a few people chatting, talking, moving around. A few large televisions screens blazed from some of the corners, but neither of them particularly noticed the sporting events. The bar area was brightly lit, the tabled seating section much less, more muted, soft up-lighting in warm lamps and sconces.

They ordered something simple, sandwiches, and spent a few minutes watching a pick-up game of darts getting organised. "So who is coming by again?"

"TJ. One of the medics who I served with."

"Oh."

It occurred to John why Sherlock had asked. "No, no one like that. No one I have a history with, in case that's what you're thinking. I wouldn't do that to you, you know."

"I didn't think that."

"Yes you did. It was clear as day on your face." John reached across the table, picked up Sherlock's hand. "Come on, give me a little credit. I'm not heartless, you realise."

"I do know. It was just a ... terrible thought, and ..."

"My past is just that, _past._ And there's no one else."

"I know." But clearly he'd been a bit rattled, insecure in their relationship still. Uncertain.

"I'm not going anywhere. And I don't think I've ever given you reason to doubt me, have I?"

There was enough of a frown that John grew more curious. Had there been something?

John's warm confident hand wrapped around Sherlock's cooler one, gave it a gentle squeeze hoping to encourage Sherlock to feel safe, feel free to speak. "No, you haven't." His brows wrinkled again, and he repeated it. "I had a hard time, though, when your mom was ill, and you obviously had to go. Obviously, I know that." He held up a hand hoping to keep John silent so he could explain. "I was unprepared, though, and ..."

"And you've never liked feeling vulnerable."

"No, I haven't."

"It's okay to feel unsure at times. Caring about someone does leave you a little vulnerable to them potentially hurting you. But I would never do it on purpose, and this?" he paused, his hand moving between them. "This is very good." Grinning, he then leaned closer in to speak again. "Would it make you feel better if I stood up on the table and announced that I'm here with you and uninterested in anyone else?"

"If you stand up on the table, the line forms behind me to tuck money into your waistband. Or your pants if you're feeling very adventuresome." Sherlock almost giggled at John's shocked face. "And I have deep pockets, so it'll take a long time before I'd let anyone else close, you know."

"Right. No standing on the table."

"Until we get home."

"We'll have to see about that. Doubtful." Food was placed on the table shortly after that, and they both tucked in for a few, at times stopping to snicker at something on the telly or something they were talking about. There was some random associations and predictions about some of the others in the bar, and a few dressed in military garb of various types did end up coming in, and there were a few already present. Each time someone arrived, heads were raised, eye contact, a visual acknowledgement usually followed by some sort of smile, nod, or gesture.

Dinner actually passed rather nicely, their server was also retired military, and conversation never dulled. The dart game ended when one of the pairs left, and the remaining players settled their glances on John and Sherlock, offering the darts out as an offer if they wanted to play.

"I'm interested if you are," Sherlock muttered.

"I played quite a bit deployed. You any good?"

"Let's see, I'm long armed, right-handed and left eye dominant, competitive when the mood strikes, what do you think?"

"In it to win it?" he asked, and when Sherlock nodded, John stood, sipped his water, grinning. He took a few steps toward the guy who was still holding the other darts out, and taking them, stated, "We're game."

The game ended up being quite enjoyable, the pairs surprisingly equally matched in skill and luck, though it took Sherlock a few throws, a couple of minutes to warm up. They won in the final round by only a few points, and both John and Sherlock declined an offer from the losing couple to buy them a round of victory drinks. The guy had explained he'd been active a few tours, presently in one of the reserve corps groups, here with his wife, and they were not only gracious losers at darts but pleasant, friendly company. Of the two, the wife seemed a little more fiercely competitive but good natured about the game outcome.

"How'd you guys meet?" She asked, smiling at the whole group, sipping her latest drink and looking at Sherlock. "Because you two're adorable together."

John could sense that Sherlock bristled at the question, his whole body tense and a worried look about his eyes. John waited only long enough that it wouldn't be odd that he answered, saying truthfully, "Mutual acquaintance introduced us." Sherlock's posture, expression, and eyes relaxed minutely again. "What, guess that was at least six, eight months ago now?" Sherlock nodded, his eyes gratefully staring back at John. "How about you?" he asked, turning the conversation away from a well-meant, personal question.

"We met online." She spoke for a few minutes about the website they used, the deployments they'd already managed, that they'd been married a little over a year. "But this was fun, really. There's usually poker in the back room, if not already started it will be. You should join us."

Briefly, John considered how Sherlock would likely win every hand at poker if he set his mind to it, and turned to glance, see if he was interested. He was much more relaxed, but shook his head slightly. In the brief moment of eye contact, he watched Sherlock's eyes flicker toward the door, then back to John's face, his shoulders, chest. "Thanks, but no," Sherlock answered.

In agreement, John was also shaking his head as he smiled, turning it down. "Not really our thing."

"Okay, well, the darts was fun. You could stay and watch ..."

Another exchanged glance, more heat, more promise, more anticipation. "I think we're going to call it a night." With a heartfelt, thankful smile, Sherlock stood while John shrugged into his coat, settled up the cheque, and bid farewell to their dart opponents.

They ran into TJ, John's medic mate from his RAMC days just as they were leaving, and exchanged a few short pleasantries at the doorway. Sherlock managed to stifle most of his immediate deductions and let dangle only a few minor, non-offensive details about his day, history, and other personal details that John was pleased remained largely unspoken. He grinned at Sherlock as the small group laughed about Sherlock's unusual skill set and John's complimentary affirmations about his talent.

"Great to see you, Cap," were TJs parting words after really only a few minutes chatting, and John took immediate notice of the way Sherlock sought out John's hand, eyes wide, smile on his face, and a bit more eagerness to leave.

Once outside, Sherlock didn't hesitate more than a moment before asking, "Cap?"

"Yes. And that was the more respectable of my nicknames."

"Do tell."

"Three Continents Watson." Sherlock snickered but did not interrupt as John explained the conquests in his first six months of service that had led to that nickname. "So, yeah, I've settled since then. Empty relationships aren't terribly fulfilling."

"Neither is filling a day with chemicals and then sleeping it off just so you can do it again."

Their steps had slowed, and at Sherlock's statement, John stopped altogether. He smiled fondly, took Sherlock's arm. "That's rather insightful. You've really made amazing progress, you know."

"It would be so easy to slip back into it." John could sense that walking would make it easier for Sherlock if he wanted to share anything, positioned side-by-side as opposed to face-to-face, so he guided them back to the walk home, a comfortable pace. "Saw a few familiar faces, you know, from the streets and those types of circles. If not the faces, the culture. One of whom I absolutely knew was definitely selling, wondering if I was interested in a purchase, made an obvious gesture in case I wanted something." John hadn't noticed. "It was while walking in that market, nothing else. The bar scene, it's all right there if you look hard enough. Did you notice the few exchanges tonight, the path toward the gents, that one table off to the side?"

"I didn't, not really." While John knew that culture existed, he did not seek it out, wasn't looking for it, and had little interest in it. He could certainly understand, however, that Sherlock was keenly aware of that sort of activity everywhere he went.

"It was very discreet. Subtle."

"I guess it doesn't surprise me just given the clientele." Sherlock made a noise, asking for more information without verbalising the question, so John shrugged and began to explain. "Military life is rough. Deployed, there are challenges there, to be sure, a lot of activity at times, and enough drug or alcohol use either on base or close enough. At least it's predictable there, the lifestyle, the expectations. Coming home, though, much harder, particularly after seeing action there. No one understands it, except another vet, the pressures are enormous, finding a job, dealing with transition, the loss of structure. Coming back to a different family, sometimes, and not feeling like you fit in anywhere. There's a Wounded Warrior program here, but resources are scarce. For a while there, there was a lot of focus on the vet suicide rates, both here and in America. There's a lot of issues even with a normal discharge, regaining civilian status."

"It had to be hard for you, too."

"For a lot of reasons, as you know. Some pretty awful circumstances." Sherlock didn't answer, just kept curious and thoughtful eyes on John. "I struggled, sure. Hospital, therapy, counseling, physio for my shoulder. And then I found a job helping people. Found I had a passion for it."

"And a skill." Sherlock's long coat flared out a bit as the wind caught as they walked. "Lucky for me."

John was about done with the introspective discussion, smiled at Sherlock's comment. He reached around to pull their shoulders together, giving a faint squeeze. "Your success was all about finding the right motivation. Harnessing inner strength." John recalled how difficult Sherlock had been, the resistance, the setback, the anxiety. "And not giving up."

"For the both of us."

Half a block passed in quiet, and John wanted to clear something up. "I'm not embarrassed about how we met, by the way. Not in the least."

"It's no one else's business," Sherlock pointed out.

"True, but ... just so you know, it was a professional relationship first."

"There's quite a stigma that goes along with drug use, rehab, and ..."

"And being an injured vet with PTSD and nightmares." Sherlock shrugged at that, looked away. "Everyone's got something. And you're right, no one's business. I just wanted to make sure you were aware."

"The worst thing about this," Sherlock began, considering his words and waiting until John was watching him, "is being mildly indebted to Mycroft."

"I don't feel indebted in the least," John told him. "For all the grief you gave me?"

"Past tense? You're sure about that?"

"Pretty sure I've given you a bit of grief too."

"If that's another word for nag, yes. You and your restrictions, rules, boundaries, and ..."

John took Sherlock's arm, gave it a gentle, mild squeeze, cutting off his complaint. "I think that's quite enough out of you for now." The low, authoritative tone was delivered pleasantly but meant to tease a bit, give John a bit of control, a reminder of what this evening had started as and all that was still ahead of them. "Baker Street?"

"God yes."

The silence was companionable as they picked up the pace a bit along their walk home. They had just rounded the corner, not quite ten minutes away from Baker Street, when a slight confrontation between a deliveryman on a bicycle and three or four other youths seemed ready to escalate. The cyclist was standing, the bike on a bit of a tilt, one of the youths getting very close, another holding the bicycle, preventing him from getting away, all of them talking.

John didn't hesitate. "Hey." Several sets of eyes quickly turned his way. "Move on along." One of the youths seemed ready to give attitude back, started complaining about people who don't mind their own fucking business. John couldn't stop the smile, then, his shoulders squared, chin up, glaring for all he was worth back at him. "Care to repeat that louder so I can hear it? And take care of enforcing your attitude adjustment if one is needed?"

Shortly, the deliveryman was off and absolutely fine, the youths long gone after the last one had actually run away, and John and Sherlock walking home again. "Okay, I thought of something else I want." Sherlock's eyes were still glittery and very alive even in the darker night pierced only by the streetlights.

"What is it?"

"Apparently, I would really enjoy seeing you punch someone."

"I didn't punch him."

"Almost. You were close."

"No, I wasn--"

"Your fists were clenched and everything."

"I admit it, I thought about it, and would have enjoyed it. But at no point did I threaten him with actual physical harm."

Sherlock slowed his steps, then, glancing around as if restless and looking for an altercation. "There's gotta be someone down here, then. I know a nice circuitous route we can take home. Stop in a drug den or something. Perhaps we'll find some excitement over there."

"No. I have plenty of excitement in store for you once we get home."

++

Baker Street came into view without further incident, and the walk had been quite refreshing. Both men came through the doorway and removed their coats, and John found Sherlock's admiration quite enjoyable, the way he watched, looked, enjoyed. Even more enjoyable was the fond look about him, the heat and storminess in his eyes. He found it a little difficult to stand still (and not suck in his quite minimal but more than he'd had on active duty gut) as Sherlock was unabashedly checking him out.

Their usual practice was that John hung up their coats, not for any reason other than he'd got in the routine of doing so. They crossed into the living room, and John held onto his jacket, offering it out to Sherlock. A brief moment frozen in time as Sherlock looked at it, intrigued, then glanced back at John. "Hang that up please." One eyebrow raised, and John cleared his throat as if drawing attention to the fact that, yet again, he'd asked Sherlock to take care of something.

Another hesitation, and Sherlock took the coat and performed the simple request of John's. John glanced around the flat, quickly, taking in the kind of day Sherlock'd had, whether or not Mrs. Hudson had brought up any baking. She hadn't - no crumbs or containers left sitting around. The disarray told a story of its own.

"Home, finally." Sherlock muttered. "Though the evening was nice."

In answer, John hooked his finger through the chain about his neck, pulled the tags free of the shirt, and just stood there.

"As I said, finally." Smiling, the sparkle in his eye and wraggle of his eyebrows, Sherlock took a step toward the bedroom. "You're joining me?"

"Stop right there."

"What? Why? I thought ..."

"First off, what time did you end up getting home today?" The question was benign, but there was definitely, Sherlock knew, an edge and motivation behind it.

"That's irrelevant." The look on his face seemed to take issue with John's query.

"I asked you a question."

John could see a faint tensing of Sherlock's jaw. "Maybe late afternoon, three-thirty, four-ish."

"So you were home a few hours before meeting me and yet you still managed to leave the kitchen a mess."

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock turned to look at it again. "That's not a mess." There were dishes in the sink, a wrapper left lying about, a few dishes full of ash detritus from something Sherlock'd obviously been studying, a few random containers waiting to be washed or thrown away. A hand towel had been tossed on the countertop. "Not really. Not that bad."

"Do I leave the kitchen looking like that?"

"No, but you're --" John's expression darkened, a brow raised, a hand on his hip - enough in combination to get Sherlock to stop talking.

"Clean up the kitchen first. Before we do anything else."

"I thought tonight was..." Sherlock seemed to almost struggle for words, he was so caught off guard. "That's not what I ..." The protest trailed off when John cleared his throat. _"Really?"_

John simply stood still, watching, arms akimbo, waiting. When Sherlock continued to challenge him, inactive and waiting for clarification, John put both hands behind his back, serious and authoritative. "Yes, really."

"You're ..." he trailed off. "Over _dishes_."

"Clean up after yourself." John waited until Sherlock had actually rolled up his sleeves, turned the water to warm, and started to do the requested task. "I remember your comments about what I was to wear. And that you were willing to consider following a few orders." Refusing to let the chuckle or grin be noticed, he cocked an eyebrow before continuing. "Did you really think I'd let an opportunity like this go to waste?" He glanced around, knowing Sherlock would be less than thrilled about it. "And I might just be getting started," he added quietly.

"You mean there's more?" He hesitated mid dish-wipe and stopped, turning to stare at John.

"I guess that's up to you, depending on how bad a shape the rest of the flat is in."

"It's fine."

"And I'm thinking it might be quite a spectacle to watch you hoover." John could have giggled when he saw Sherlock's face as he added, low and close to Sherlock's ear, "Naked."

Dishes clattered in their journey from dirty to soapy to wet to dry. Sherlock needed a bit more direction, but probably token resistance, and in short order he'd finished the task to John's satisfaction.

"I'm hoping you were kidding about wasting time cleaning the bloody flat."

"I was. But you did remarkably well on the kitchen and probably deserve a reward."

"Okay."

"What would you like, right now? What one thing?"

"A cigarette."

"No." John blew out a long, sighing breath, smiling but shaking his head a bit. "If only I had only known what my agreeing one time - _one time_ \- to a cigarette I would never, ever have done that." John had, in fact, months ago promised and then kept the promise to allow Sherlock one cigarette. It was at a time when motivation was low, and the reward of getting dressed and leaving the flat did actually earn Sherlock that very thing. Presently, John was fairly certain he was already wearing a nicotine patch, and lifted his forearm while sliding the shirt cuff out of the way to visually assure himself it was there. "So here's the thing: congratulations on quitting. Again. No more cigarettes. Now, the question, what do you want? Something I would consider acceptable."

Their eyes held for a moment and John could tell the very moment that an idea occurred to Sherlock.

"What did you come up with?"

"You won't laugh."

"At your idea? Of course not."

"I remember early on here, maybe after that first real shower, after a couple days of pain and sweating, you did something for me. Something wonderful. Something that really grabbed my attention." There was a small stain of colour on Sherlock's cheeks as he looked away but brought his hand up, brushing over the slight stubble on his jaw. He flicked his eyes to John's but then looked away quickly as if embarrassed, hoping he would hear the non-verbal request.

"You want me to shave you."

"No, it's fine, never mind."

"I'm surprised you remember much of that."

"I remember you being very close to me, working carefully. It's a very ... cared for sensation, personal, when someone does that."

"Intimate."

"Yes. But we don't have to, so it's --"

"I'd like that." The idea bloomed into something wonderful as John thought about it more. It impressed him greatly that Sherlock was able to ask for something he wanted, something so private. "It sounds like a great idea."

Like the last time John shaved him, they ended up in the bathroom, Sherlock on a high-seated chair, facing the mirror, John angled to the side. The equipment was the same - shaving cream, blade razor, towel at the ready. Unlike last time, before John even got started, set out supplies, he stood behind Sherlock a moment, their eyes connected in their mirrored reflection. With gazes still locked, he leaned in, down, inhaling gently against Sherlock's neck, that sensitive spot under his ear, pressed his lips in and applied a small amount of suction along with the nuzzle. A quick press, another kiss on the side of his face. Sherlock watched every movement John made like a hawk, sharp-eyed, enjoying each nuance, scent, and reflection. John draped a towel around Sherlock's dress shirt, set to work. The faintly audible, coarse sound of the razor over lathered skin as the stubble was worked away, removed, rinsed seemed loud and echo-like in the small room. Both men enjoyed the close proximity, John's capable hands, confidently moving, Sherlock simply seated and trusting. The smell of the shaving cream - faintly lime, faintly citrus - along with scents innately their own adding to the sensual, visceral experience.

There were, of course, some directives issued:  _tip back, lip tight, sit up, here hold this towel_. There were also some encouragements, words spoken by John that seemed to make Sherlock's breath catch:  _that's good, perfect, just like that, hold still for me._

A splash of after-shave, a quick clean up of towel and product, and John stood in the bathroom, Sherlock simply standing, waiting, patient. They were toe-to-toe, and nose to nose, breath mingling a bit, their bodies not physically touching but quite aware of the other, the heat, the chemistry, the _want_. John brushed his thumbs lightly over Sherlock's perfectly smooth chin, jaws, coming to rest lightly across Sherlock's bowed lips.

With a controlled reach, Sherlock took hold of John's tags that rested over his soft tee shirt, tugged lightly, the chain snug around the back of John's neck, until their faces were touching. Lips pressed against lips, gently exploring, a feathery touch at first, that quickly progressed to more, harder, firmer, seeking, interested, demanding. John finally eased back, not looking to have the evening escalate quite yet to the finish line, and tipped their heads together just resting face against face.

"So if that was a reward for the dishes, I'm thinking the stakes would be higher for the hoovering." Sherlock's voice was low and amused. "I might actually be willing --"

"Don't push it." John flicked the light switch. "Come with me," he said quietly, leading the way across the hall to the bedroom. John lit the small lamp on a side table, casting warm glow about the room. Sherlock smiled, a bit more relaxed, more than he'd been all evening.

"This was nice, thanks for doing it for me." A finger came out to touch the dogtags again, the beltloops of the fatigues, the hem of the tee shirt. "All of it, really. Shave too."

"I'm glad you enjoyed."

"It was interesting watching other people notice you." He explained a bit about the looks he noticed from people in the places they'd visited or passed on the street. "The bartender, for instance. A veteran, I'm thinking." Sherlock paused while John nodded once. Of course Sherlock knew. "Deferential treatment. He didn't charge you for the drinks, did he?"

"He didn't. Two sodas, though," John said. "Not like I ordered top shelf drinks."

"But still. The heads would turn sometimes after we'd walked past. The group of girls in the gardens, they not only watched but giggled, joked about a hot man in uniform."

"It didn't make you uncomfortable did it?"

"No."

"Because you know I'm not interested in anyone else."

"I do know. It was just, well ... interesting. To watch someone look at you, then at me, try to figure out what we are to each other. Sometimes it was wondering why we are together." Sherlock's eyes were still glittery, dark, and he took a step in John's direction, reaching for the hem of the tee shirt.

John took half a step back. "Not yet." Sherlock's gaze raised in surprised. "We're not quite ready for that yet, not entirely done yet, are we?" He watched Sherlock's adams apple bob once, his mouth obviously dry in anticipation, his pupils dilate, breathing escalate. "I do believe you can start by taking off your shoes." There was an uncomfortable moment, a very brief hesitation, and Sherlock deftly, quickly, untied them, slid his stockinged feet out, pushing the shoes out of the way with a long, elegant foot. John snickered, watching, and when Sherlock looked at him with a touch of confusion, he said, "Closet, please. Where they belong." Had John not been watching closely, he might have missed the faintest narrowing of his lower eyelid in a bit of most likely feigned annoyance, and he hid his smile in response. "Better." He stood quite still, himself, watching Sherlock and enjoying the obvious dynamics between them as they waited, wondered, and considered. John let the silence drag out a bit, increasing Sherlock's anticipation and curiosity. "I might like to see you on your knees, right here," he whispered and indicated the floor in front of him, "if you're agreeable." He chose his words carefully, testing the waters.

Sherlock didn't move a muscle other than a few blinks. "And then?" he asked quietly.

"I leave that up to you. I can think of a few things, I suppose. I'm not too fussy when it comes to the actual mechanics."

"Didn't stop you from fussing about my shoes." Sherlock continued to stand still. "And the bloody dishes. Which by the way, you leave them from time to time, too, so that might've been pushing it."

"As I said, I had opportunity, so I took it." With a steady hand, John indicated the space right in front of him. "Sherlock." They kept eye contact. "On your knees, then. Right here, please."

A trickle of uncertainty passed through John's thoughts and then, as he continued to watch, there was the faintest movement of Sherlock's lower lip as he absolutely did not smile, but there was some pleasure behind his expression.

"That was an order." Sherlock stayed completely still. With a controlled movement, John raised his hand to Sherlock's shoulder, pressing firmly, giving his trapezius muscle a firm squeeze. Sherlock stood tall, still, resisting, his eyes focused on John alone and bright as he did, though one narrowed in response to the increasing sharp pressure on a sensitive muscle. John cocked his head, smiling, and raised a brow as if asking Sherlock if he was sure about his defiance. A faint nod of permission, a flare of the nostril, and John grinned back broader, increasing both pressure and leverage on Sherlock's shoulder until, with a gasp, Sherlock did slowly lower himself to his knees. "Good choice," John breathed, relaxing his grip. He knew the pressure had been mildly uncomfortable, and he left his hand where it had been, rubbing just a bit, soothing and reassuring.

Sherlock still didn't move. "Are you going to tell me every little thing now?"

"I mean, I can, but it might get a bit boring after a bit, and I think you're quite skilled at knowing what you want, and what I like."

Sherlock reached for the slide of John's canvas belt buckle, deftly opening and unzipping, a slide of hands beginning at the skin of John's back brushing down over pelvis, thigh, removing clothing as they lowered. "I believe I can take it from here." He licked his lips, his breath warm against John's lower abdomen, mouth warm and open and inviting.

John did utter a few more orders - more in the form of suggestions - as Sherlock breathed, and leaned, lips moving over John's skin. Most of his statements seemed to either begin or end with an 'oh god' or a variant of 'please.'

"Stop, too close, not this way," he finally said, a desperate whisper, a strong palm against the top of Sherlock's head and one foot moving back as much as he could given the restrictions of his half-mast trousers. A strong hand under Sherlock's elbow, nudging, and they were both standing. Another snog, a few deep inhales, and John smiled. The warm light in the room cast a soft glow about them, and the urgency of their togetherness abated some. "Could use some assistance with the boots, if you're inclined."

"I might be," Sherlock answered with a grin, "unless you're going to carry on about other foolish things." John watched, intrigued, as Sherlock unbuttoned then tossed aside his own shirt so that it crumpled on the floor, daring John to call him on it.

"So yeah, less likely to trip over your shirt as opposed to the shoes. Nearly broke my neck on one the other morning." Sherlock had pulled his belt out of the loops, whisked that free, let it fall somewhere else. "Slow down, yeah?"

"Waiting is boring." He watched John then, pick up the chain around his neck, tuck it back inside the collar of his shirt, and then remove the shirt. The tags jangled as they settled against John's skin. "You don't mind wearing them? And leaving them on a little longer?"

"For me, they're all about business, or at least they used to be, until tonight. Blood type, identification, religious affiliation if things got dicey." Both of them watched Sherlock's hand skitter along John's pectorals, clavicle, up to his shoulder and then down along the chain, plucking the metal and then letting it fall against John's chest again. "No, I don't mind in the least." They were still wearing too many clothes. "I believe I had requested some assistance with these boots, yeah?"

++

The morning light invaded, bright sun rather than the more common gray and overcast beginning. John lay on his side, facing away from Sherlock. Under the covers, Sherlock's knee was tucked in behind John's, one foot burrowed in near John's ankle. The warmth radiated between them, and John was faintly aware of the warm exhale not too far from the back of his neck.

"Oh good, you're awake." The deep, morning roughness in the voice behind him was quiet.

John turned his head slightly on the pillow, caught sight of Sherlock wide awake, bright-eyed. A hand touched the back of his neck, the chain moving, and Sherlock slid the tags around in front of John where they belonged. "Morning." John cleared his throat, said it again clearer. "Been awake long?"

"Long enough to have come up with some new ideas."

"New ideas."

"Things to try, places to go, perhaps a bit of research on the effect of military gear on strangers in random settings and perhaps strategic sections of the city --"

"Wait. It's a bit early for ..." He snickered a little as Sherlock shifted his pelvis closer to John's bum, poking a bit with an interested, throbbing body part. "I haven't even had tea yet."

"I don't think anyone other than you finds that tea equals foreplay. And I dare say," Sherlock said low, pressing his chest and pelvis closer to John's back, a hand reaching around and sliding low, "that you're interested as well. Therefore, tea is also not a prerequisite for morning sex. Even for you."

"Insatiable." John complained but without sincerity, and reached an arm back to press his mouth against Sherlock's face, turning away at the last minute from his mouth. Sherlock was having none of that, a hand guiding and holding so that their mouths met. After only a brief touch of their lips John wrenched away, muttering, "Toothbrush, first, if you want that."

"Fine. No kissing yet." He eased back, letting his hand slide over John, who rutted a bit against Sherlock's hand and then backwards against Sherlock's hips.

"Wait, let me," John said, leaning forward to reach for the nightstand for the lube that was usually close at hand. Sherlock's other hand appeared in John's vision, the small bottle already there. "How long did you say you'd been awake?"

"Long enough to make sure we're both going to get exactly what we want." There was a chuckle as the cap flipped open. "Again."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transition to civilian life is a challenging time for a soldier coming home. He or she is at high risk for unhealthy behaviours, substance abuse, and suicide during that time. Check out woundedwarriorproject.org or www.mission22.com for details or statistics if you're interested. I have a marine mom friend who is very passionate about helping minimize risk by mobilising support when a soldier returns home.
> 
> ____
> 
> I've been cheating on this chapter by writing the next one, and feeling oddly guilty about not finishing this one first. So here it is, flaws and all. If there are big glaring issues please let me know. Next chapter, unless something *cough* unexpected happens, will be the last one. I have really enjoyed getting the guys to this point. One more to go.
> 
> I'm so grateful for all who read and comment. It's so heartwarming, and I love the support and enthusiasm of this fandom so much.


	23. Instead of Ruins, Beauty from Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title and content courtesy of Allsovacant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darkness, my old friend...
> 
> Oh, what was supposed to be a fluffy, domestic, happy place chapter starts instead with ... something entirely different - Ashes and ruins.
> 
> You are warned. The characters were not quite ready to stroll off into the sunset together yet, apparently. The fluffy, domestic, happy moments and resolution of some of the unfinished strings of this piece will be forthcoming.

John's mobile had blown up during his last patient of the day, one that required both hands, steady for an extended period of time, cleaning, numbing, then suturing, emotional support for the partner at the bedside, and a gentle reminder to wear shoes when tiptoeing around broken glass, or better, cleaning it up first. Some fairly involved wound management in various parts of the foot, cleaning, local anaesthetic, seventeen sutures, then dressing, boot application for protection, and crutches. The visit was rather extended, much longer than the typical patient encounter. After ushering the patient and partner toward reception for check-out, John sighed. And only then did John get a moment to peruse the missed calls (one from Greg and a hangup from a blocked number) and quickly scroll through his messages.

**John, Case! Meet me ASAP, address to follow. SH**

**A kidnapping, the Met has finally agreed. I called it at the outset. SH**

**Hurry up John, if you want in on the excitement, these idiots are only making this more difficult. SH**

**Not difficult, they are making this unsafe, bloody morons. SH**

**Any day now, John, following a ransom note threatening dire consequences. SH**

**I know I have gotten excited about murders in the past, but this one had better end with a LIVE find. SH**

**We're not waiting for you, you really need to get your lazy arse over here. Address update to follow. SH**

**Surveillance on the scene, Greg is sending a scout team. Doesn't feel right. Too quiet. Ominous. John, please. SH**

The messages from Sherlock then ended. From what it appeared, the missed call from Greg was next, and then more texts.

**John, call me when you get this. Greg**

**John, call me immediately. Greg**

**Where are you? Something you should know, call me. Greg**

**Call me before you do anything. Greg**

John's thumb scrolled through further, a sense of concern blooming into serious misgivings, bordering on fear. Finding one from Mycroft then made his blood run cold.

**I do believe your presence may be urgently required at Baker Street. I'm sending a car. Mycroft**

John looked up from that message, a gnawing pit of dread and nausea growing. A black sedan was already in front of the clinic, door open, driver waiting.

++

Several silent minutes later and the car was driving away, having deposited him at the kerb outside Speedy's. There was a queasy sense of foreboding and John hurried inside as he fought back the alarm going off within him.

The ride home had been quickly passed trying to make contact. John was barely in the car, with the driver closing the door that breezed across his trouser leg, before gripping his mobile. An immediate phone call to Sherlock's mobile, directly into voicemail as if powered off or otherwise out of service. He sent a text to Sherlock, which had stayed unread, simply that he was available now, to please call.

He'd called Greg as instructed. "Oh god, John, I'm in the middle of a terrible mess, ransom ended in... " and in the background, John could hear uncontrollable, inconsolable gut-wrenching sobbing, "... oh god. Anyway, Sherlock was here, saw all of it, not his fault, not at all. But he took off, and I couldn't spare on officer to go after him. Still can't." The noise through the mobile changed, as if he'd stepped away from somewhere, insular, his voice now echoing and hollow. "We were too late, domestic dispute apparently, kidnapping-murder-suicide." Greg's speech was pressured. "I don't have much time, gotta get back. But Sherlock was not good when he left here. Not at all. Thought you should know."

John had gasped a bit there in the back of the limo as he was driven the few minutes to their flat, began to say thank you and express concern all around, and would have offered his assistance later but he realised he was talking to a dead line.

He knew Mycroft would already know his whereabouts, and given that the car sent by him was already parked to let him out, he did not reach out to Sherlock's brother yet.

Baker Street was mostly dark, but Sherlock had clearly been home. The door was ajar, a single, low-wattage light on, no one in the immediate vicinity of the sitting room. Coat thrown on the back of the couch. His mobile lay on the floor under a rather large mobile-sized ding in the wall, thrown apparently, broken, screen shattered, case opened, useless and silent. Sherlock was not usually angered to the point of a raging display of uncontrolled temper, and certainly took care of the mobile, so for him to have treated it, _a bit not good, that_ ... John continued his quick study of the room. Half a shelf full of books had been pulled and strewn about, an empty, wooden book-shaped box lay askew and open on the end of the couch. Something had obviously been inside.

John's fear crystallised.

"Sherlock?" he said quietly, heading for the bedroom.

The room was dark and undisturbed, still and ominous.

From the hallway, he listened intently, hearing nothing in the downstairs. He turned his steps up the flight of stairs, wondering. They'd cleaned up somewhat upstairs, turning it into a makeshift office and study for either of them, or both, when some peace and quiet was needed. The window in the upstairs room was open, the drapery flickering with the occasional puff of breeze.

_Good lord, the roof, seriously?_

"Sherlock?" he said, approaching the window. He was part relieved and part sickened to realise Sherlock was out on the roof. Sticking his head out, he leaned around then to see Sherlock sitting up on the slanted shingles. The pitch was not terribly angled, but still...  He was quiet, watching, subdued. More than that. "You okay?"

"A moronic question." He stared back, eyes cold. A slow, lazy blink. "Nooooo. Of course I'm not." The flat, slow cadence to his words gave John a chill.

Without hesitation, John climbed through the open window to join Sherlock out on the roof moving slow and careful so that Sherlock wouldn't startle or try to get away, he hoped.

Pinpoint pupils, speech slow and eyelids droopy, calm and relaxed for the world. Idly, he looked over at John, scratching a bit at his left, non-dominant arm. "I couldn't help it." Fingernails over skin, itching of his elbow, upper arm. An idle scratching of his waist, his neck. The physician mode assessed skin colour - fair, respiratory rate - adequate, responsiveness - all right for the moment. John thought about the dose of intranasal naloxone he still had in his portable medical kit that he kept in the flat. It was downstairs... "I couldn't."

"I know."

"Too late." Sherlock shot an accusatory glare in John's direction. "You weren't there. I needed you, and you weren't there."

"I came as quick as I could. I'm sorry." Sherlock had been given John's office number of course, told to use it if he needed John more urgently. John kept quiet about that for the time being.

"Mycroft didn't answer. And not one, but _two_ bodies..."

"I know, I heard. Greg told me."

"Greg was busy. Too busy."

"Working. As was I." John slid out of his coat, despite knowing that Sherlock likely didn't feel the chill of the air, tucked it over Sherlock's shoulders. He took a seat next to him then, on the angled roof, the noise and light of the street and community wafting about them.

"God, I just wanted..." He hunkered down inside John's coat, leaned in toward John's shoulder, closed his eyes. The speech was so slurred, slow, so atypical of his usual tone. An exhale, face relaxed, mouth slightly open, and he fell asleep, nodding off, drug-induced narcolepsy, sudden relaxation.

Before waiting even a moment to see if Sherlock's breathing would also become bradypneic, progress to apnea, he did the reflexive shake and shout, a hand at Sherlock's elbow and his voice calling out a strong, _"Hey."_

Sherlock's eyes slitted open, a faint groan in his throat. A few blinks, and he was more awake then, eyes full of pain. John well recognised that look. It was the same after any trauma - whether military, medical, pedestrian, clinical, childhood - having seen too much, a horrifying discovery no matter the type that just can't be unseen, scrubbed off, or forgotten. It was greater than only pain - distress, aching, deep sorrow. Old eyes, one of his fellow army surgeons had called it. It was collateral damage, the price of knowledge and not easily hidden at first.

"I know." John gazed down at the head resting on his shoulder, eyes closed long lashes over those angled facial bones, watching his breathing, skin colour, and a wave of affection surrounded him. Although he knew they had more work to do, that relapse was never easy, this would not beat them. He slid his arm around behind Sherlock's back, supportive, pulling him closer.

"Made a mistake."

"You're not perfect, you're not going to solve them all in time."

"And then I made 'nother mistake."

"What exactly did you do?" John was fairly certain without asking, but wanted clarification. He watched Sherlock's profile as his lips tightened, cheeks coloured, and he turned away. Part of him was pleased at least there was remorse, a bit of shame rather than an arrogant boasting about it. He waited a bit, watched Sherlock swallow, uncomfortably, itching, scratching idly, again along his armpit and chest.

John spoke the word, knowing the answer already. "Heroin." The blink was slow, and Sherlock kept his eyes closed, nodding once. "Was that all?" Another slow nod. Though John could have - and wanted to prompt an oral confession - pressed, he reached out a hand toward Sherlock's left antecub, where his dominant hand would have injected it. One, small, red pinprick mark was visible, the only evidence there. "I see."

"I let you down."

"You let yourself down."

"And don't forget the dead people. Let them down too." The typical, sweet baritone Sherlock spoke with felt oddly cool, emotionless, too slow.

"They are not your responsibility." There was so much John wanted to say, would say later, would steer conversation toward. For the moment, he tried to keep it simple. "The only one you can control the actions of is yourself."

"Too late."

"What happened to them was not your fault."

"It was." Sherlock wobbled a little as he sat there on the roof. "I thought I had it, and then ..."

"You realise ..."

"It was sad." His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, "And then it hurt." John could see the moistness of his eyes, knew part of it was the drugs, but it was heartbreaking nonetheless. "And then I just wanted it to all go 'way."

With his near hand, John grabbed Sherlock's chin, turned him so that he could see his face. "You can only control yourself. And today we learned something: your decisions and your plan really can't be grounded in someone else, because, like today, there's always the chance we will let you down, be unavailable for a moment, whatever the case may be." Uncomfortable, Sherlock tried to wrench his head free of John's steadying grip on him but was unable - John held fast. "Stop it and listen. Very common to have a slip, or two. Relapse. Sometimes it forces us to reevaluate what failed." John's words were more intense than angry, more full of emotion than volume. He stared deep into Sherlock's only partly focused eyes, his hand still holding Sherlock's face, hoping the touch was somewhat comforting and grounding.

"Well, that's obvious, _I_ failed."

"I'm not going to argue that. But it doesn't mean you are a failure, because you're not."

"I couldn't solve the case in time."

Although John wanted to speak, get more information, help guide Sherlock through his self-analysis, he kept quiet.

"People died tonight."

"That was the terrible decision of someone else."

"I could have --"

"But you did not directly cause it."

"Had I figured it out --"

"Stop."

"This will never go away." He finally wrenched away from John's hold, and with irritation, continued to itch at his neck. "Never," and he gestured at his arm, patting a hand over his chest, indicating his own internal struggles. There was a faint car horn noise from the street, door slamming, a fine mist billowing, the lights blue tinged and hazy. "Nothing will ever change."

"That's not true."

"Oh god," Sherlock moaned softly. "You're ending this, aren't you. Moving out."

John frowned, heartsick, and wrapped an arm behind Sherlock's frame again, their sides nearly touching. "I would never give up on something good, someone good, for one mistake. Or even several." The mildly angled roof seemed a dull protection, a haven as Sherlock leaned forward to tuck his head onto arms that rested on his bent knees. "Never. Am I making myself clear?"

After a few frozen moments, thinking, considering, listening, or perhaps mindless for a moment, Sherlock gave a small nod.

"I can't hear you." He wanted a verbal answer this time, rather than the melancholy stillness. "I do want an answer to that Sherlock. Out loud. One mistake does not change us, yeah?" Sherlock left his head against his knees, but turned to that he could see John, take stock of his face, seek reassurance. John smiled a bit at him. "Do you understand."

"Doesn't make sense."

"I didn't say it had to." Trying to suppress a shiver in the cold air, John rubbed a hand lightly over Sherlock's back. "Well?"

"I hear you." The whisper was still and slow, dull. "Just not sure I believe ..."

Sherlock's eyes closed again, and John had no desire to watch him fall asleep again on the roof while he shivered and froze. "Come on, love. Back inside. I have no interest in continuing to sit in this fog until I'm drenched. And I don't fancy the thought of either of us slipping or taking a tumble off the roof tonight." Sherlock's eyes opened again, and he seemed willing enough. "Back inside with you, slow and careful though. No more close calls tonight."

John was more than a little relieved when they were both off the damp roof shingles, back inside, the window latched again, and there was no angled pitch leading to a three story drop in front of them.

++

Most of the medical monitoring equipment had ended up of course returned to Mycroft, but John dug out a few remaining things - an older model but still quite accurate pulse oximeter, wired this time, though at the moment he couldn't imagine actually being relaxed enough to fall asleep himself. Not for a long time anyway. Although he didn't think at this point the intranasal naloxone would be needed, he made sure to set it on top of the bag, easily accessible, in case he couldn't wake Sherlock up at any point later.

Sherlock refused food, but John wanted something quick and available just in case, so he brought a few hastily grabbed snacks with him to the bedroom. After helping Sherlock in and out of the loo, then into pyjamas, he guided him to the bed. His eyes were mostly closed, his face relaxed, body exhausted. An adjustment of the pillow, covers tucked up, and then John had a moment to take care of a few things, gather a few things nearby in case they were needed. 

Sherlock slept. John vacillated between staring at him and occasionally paying attention to his mobile. There was a constant vigilance, an awareness of the rise and fall of Sherlock's ribs, a conscious listening for his breathing pattern. He nibbled on a few things, then set the food aside, not even a little bit hungry.

Sherlock sleep was more like unconsciousness, unmoving, unnatural, entirely too deep, a neurologic somnolence. The respiratory pattern and tone was safe physiologically, but one that John couldn't stop monitoring, watching, staring as if willing a regaining of normalcy. With a sigh, he got out the equipment he'd prepared earlier, and clipped the pulse oximeter probe to Sherlock's finger and then watched it display normal readings for both saturation and heart rate. The technology helped somewhat as he kept a close eye on him as well. A big breath in, then out, and he could feel the faintest bit better now that he wasn't shouldering the responsibility alone - monitoring equipment was also apparently useful for that.

A few succinct text messages, a cryptic one to Greg letting him know that he and Sherlock were home and safe, and one to Mycroft just as vague, that he would be keeping a close eye on Sherlock for a while. John dimmed the light, tucked the oxygen monitor up under a pillow and out of the way for peace of mind, and climbed into bed. He lay on his side, facing Sherlock, watching chest rise, skin tone, eye movements, and wishing - not for the first time - that these journeys didn't have to be so difficult. He thought about reading (not interested), watching a movie (meh), but settled for putting on some quiet, classical music while keeping an eye on Sherlock.

For a few moments, John simply lay on his side, his hand resting gingerly over Sherlock's ribs, feeling his breathing and being reassured with each steady breath. John had no idea how much time had elapsed, just laying there, watching. The street was mostly silent when Sherlock seemed to fall more deeply asleep, there was a slowing and then a pause in his breathing.

"Sherlock." No change, no chest rise, no response. "Sherlock," he said again, louder, including a shake of his hand that rattled the entirety of the mattress. _"Christ."_

"Wha--" came the answering murmur at the same moment the heart rate alarm beeped as Sherlock's heart rate slowed briefly along with the apnea. A frown came along with an inhale. "Mmmmm."

"I'm probably going to need to wake you up now and again. It's that or medication. Or the hospital."

"No hospital."

"Then wake the hell up."

"'Mm fine. Leave me sleep."

"Then don't stop breathing, you berk."

"Leave me 'lone."

He briefly toyed with the idea of giving him a swift kick to the shins, ostensibly to wake him further but also in a display of frustration. He'd had parents in a rehab or detox setting, and even sometimes at the surgery verbalise similar sentiments which were not seriously meant - 'my kid better be fine because I'm going to kill him.'

Sherlock's eyes were closed, and John had no idea how actively he was listening. "You know, in case you're listening, I'm a bit too invested in you, in us, to let you die tonight."

For a long while there was no response to that, then one of Sherlock's eyes opened to find John. A serious blue eye, pale and still not his usual eye movement or acuity, but improving. He was actually a bit more awake than he'd been. "I'm not...  _d_ _ie_ ... really?"

"I'm too invested in you to let you die tonight." John reiterated. "Or anytime soon." John realised something else, that Sherlock needed clarification. "And yes, I said die." Sherlock frowned. "Did you not realise how dangerous this was, tonight, you doing this?"

"I didn't."

"Well, it's risky --"

"I also didn't realise the extent of your feelings."

"Yes. Does that surprise you?"

Sherlock bowed his head a bit, eyes closed, thinking. Or zoning out again. Eventually, he gave one single nod.

"You could have called me earlier, you know, actually ring, and we could have talked."

"Didn't wanna bother you."

"Look where that got us." John tapped him again until Sherlock looked over. There was a glaze, a fogginess to his eyes. "You realise I'd rather have been bothered."

He'd nodded off, but seemed a bit better, less labile, nodding off slowly instead of rapidly, suddenly, like flipping a switch.

His radar, that innate sense when something was awry, was still functioning well. Each pause in Sherlock's breathing was well noted in both his peripheral vision and his awareness of each of Sherlock's breaths. Initially, there was a slight pause every couple of minutes, but as time wore on, they became fewer and farther between as his respiratory drive - and therefore respiratory pattern - normalised.

Mycroft texted him back, asking if he had arrived home in time to prevent an unwise decision. John left that unanswered. Another text from Mycroft arrived a few minutes later asking if John was in need of any supplies of any type. John responded negatively and that he would let him know if anything changed. He silenced the mobile and set it aside.

A bit later, John did end up picking up a novel, but within a few minutes was sidetracked by a few moans from Sherlock. His skin was slightly clammy, the usual alabaster colour a bit more pale and gray hued. Though he was mostly resting, clearly he was uncomfortable. John sighed, wishing that this evening hadn't turned out this way, knowing that the itching and irregular breathing was changing over to sweating and possibly nausea. Vomiting, he knew, was fairly common, and he hoped that, if Sherlock experienced any, that it would not be of the violent type those months ago that had caused the tear in his esophageal lining, the horrific bleeding from the Mallory-Weiss tear.

He went a bit proactive, then, on preventing vomiting. "Raise up just a bit, Sherlock, tucking another pillow here behind you. Elevate your head a bit yeah?"

"No."

"Non-negotiable," John said, unsurprised that even groggy, Sherlock certainly still could make his needs known and be just as contrary as he was at baseline. He guided him forward, added a pillow, then, pleased with the results, found a cool cloth, sponged off Sherlock's perspiring face. Heroin, he knew, could be a cruel dictator with severe symptoms, terrible symptoms that left a person desperate to alleviate them. It was a quick fix, and a plummet into discomfort that led to quick addition. A user's search for relief contributed to the desperate attempts to find more, use more, just one more hit, to stave off the post-high inevitable gut-crunching crash. Because the crash, even after a single use, was awful.

It was hard for anyone, worse for a recovering addict. The brain never forgets.

It was a long night.

++

"We - you need a plan going forward."

Sherlock stared, not disagreeing or challenging for the moment. Still with two pillows under his head and upper body, he stretched his toes then rolled his shoulders, the aching muscles and discomfort from his restlessness and perspiration profound. John had offered him water and paracetamol, which after about four refusals, he did finally take. So far, from what John could tell, it hadn't helped much.

"So we don't have to do this again."

"Right."

"So, any ideas?" John volleyed the conversation solidly to Sherlock to own, to take stock of.

"I don't care. Whatever makes sense." Sherlock spoke as if he wasn't giving it much thought and truthfully didn't care.

"You heard me, right? _Your_ plan."

"Obviously." There was a purse of his lips, a sneer.

"Well, this is really for you to determine. You're the one."

"Let me ask, were you expecting this?" Sherlock turned his head as he asked the question, and let his sharp eye pierce into John's expression. 

"The truth?"

"Obviously. Of course I want the truth."

"I was hoping that we could have skipped it, but, yes, I suppose, to some degree, I was. It's not uncommon."

"Thanks for the warning."

"Would it have mattered?" John asked, waiting a moment for Sherlock to concede that point, a shrug of annoyance. "It's not altogether a bad thing. We make a new plan, now that we know it's a more serious risk."

"Well, then help me through this. What kind of a plan?"

"Again, for you to actually carry out. But I do have some suggestions."

"Let's hear them."

"You first."

He opened one eye to glare at John. "Solving the case in time would have prevented --" He let the words trail off, sighing in frustration. "Can't this wait?"

"It could, but what's gained by that? Nothing really." John wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around him, comforting and secure, to assure him it would be okay, to slip off to sleep wrapped up in each other. "I know you're disappointed, with physical symptoms on top of it. Great motivation, actually."

"I don't know, John. If you're not going to help me, here and now, just leave me alone."

"You realise I can't do this for you."

"You could have helped me last night. Had you been there," he whinged, his anger simmering and words cruel.

John had known that blame was coming, saw it for what it was, and didn't react to it too much. "Again, I can't do this for you. I am not responsible for your behaviour."

"Piss off."

"You asked for help, and I'm glad to give it if you're going to listen." He watched Sherlock tamp down a bit on his anger, and gesture to continue with a roll of his hand. "First, get rid of every last bit, every last substance, all the paraphernalia, all of it, from the flat."

"I already --"

"Keeping a little, keeping any, is like giving yourself permission to fail. And obviously, it did more than just tempt you this last time."

Sherlock seemed to dislike the suggestion, crossing his arms, closing off, almost pouting.

"You asked for my suggestion. That's the first one. I recommended it before, as you may recall, and let you try it your way first."

Though the words _I don't want to_ were not spoken aloud, John could almost hear them anyway radiating off of Sherlock.

"If it helps, you can hide something else in each spot. Something not illegal, not dangerous, not addictive."

"McVities."

Though John had suggested a substitution, he chuckled at Sherlock's unexpected choice. "Okay."

 _"Chocolate_ ones." Sherlock huffed.

"Fine." John would have agreed to much more than that, and was watching Sherlock's grouchiness seem to be surfacing. 

"This is stupid."

"You know, before you get huffy about it, remember that your keeping stuff in the flat, giving you the feeling of power over not using it like you had said to me before, only works until you give in."

"I know." There was a bit of an eye roll. "God, my head aches..."

John slid a little closer, brought his hand up to the back of Sherlock's neck. A flexing of his fingers, lightly massaging the tense muscles of head support, up into the scalp, those sensitive hair follicles. John's fingers were sure, confident, and grew firmer as Sherlock relaxed and leaned into his touch. The two of them spent a few minutes just savouring the togetherness, the ministrations of John's strong hand, the rendering of aid and comfort.

Sherlock sighed, leaning a bit further into John's caress, adjusting his head so that John's fingers could reach even farther into his discomfort. "What else?"

"Let's go get your list." The fingers, however, didn't stop.

"What list?"

"The list you made of reasons you don't want to use, your motivations when you decided, the things you can do when you're tempted." This time, John did slow his rubbing and gradually withdraw his hand.

Another huff. "Fine." Sherlock groaned a bit as he worked his stiff body into an upright position, brushing off John's hesitant offer to help, and shuffled to the sitting room. He dug the list out from some filing system known only to him that put said list between a chemistry textbook from his most recent class and a book of Dvorak violin solos. He handed it out to John, who took it and gave it a quick perusal.

"Sit by me, let's go through a couple of things about it, yeah?" John patted the couch next to him. He took the paper, and a pencil, and, with Sherlock sitting next to him, drew a thin line through several of the things on Sherlock's list. Sherlock watched intently. "So, that's my edit to your list. Give it a bit of thought, tell me why I crossed out some of them."

"Because they didn't work."

"Partly. Why else? What else do they have in common?"

Sherlock set down both papers, leaned his head back. "Obviously. They have to do with things I can't control. Other people. Circumstance."

"Right. They can help you, no doubt. But we should focus on the ones that are yours alone, your internal motivation, your responsibility."

"Easy for you to say now. You didn't see ..." His voice caught, the frown back, remembering.

"I know. And I'm sure it was awful." John waited a bit, but only long enough to affirm his words without dwelling on it. "See this one, on the list. The 24/7 hotline?"

There was a long pause. "Didn't occur to me. And I wanted immediate ... relief. To forget."

"Is this number in your mobile contacts?"

"Mobile's ..." he gestured to where it was still laying, broken and pathetic.

"Yeah, I saw that, bit not good." He didn't comment further on the mobile, instead gestured at the list. "But was it in your mobile?" A shake that no, it hadn't been. "Do you think the hotline, or something else here, might have helped you last night?"

A few breaths, a shrug, and then there was stillness, silence, and quiet in the flat. The furrow between Sherlock's brows was back, and an unhappy brush of Sherlock's hand across his forehead. Headache, probably, John knew, although he could tell it was more than just that. Though John wanted to press, to reach out and touch, he waited for Sherlock to regroup and put words to whatever was now troubling him. "Are we okay?" Sherlock asked then, his head still back and eyes mostly closed.

"What do you mean?"

"Exactly that. Are we okay? We, you and I."

"I think so. Do you get the sense that we're in a bad place?"

"Are you here, John, as my doctor or as my partner?"

"Well," John sighed. "Both for the moment. I'm difficult to completely separate one from the other. Your partner now, more of a doctor last night, but," Sherlock's expression was still troubled, "I don't think it matters much. The important part is that I'm here."

There was a heavy silence. "For now."

Edging closer then, sensing the time was right, John pressed his lips to Sherlock's forehead. "I'm not going anywhere." He took the papers, not wishing Sherlock to be any further overwhelmed than he already was. "And yes, to answer your question with more confidence, yes. We are definitely going to be okay."

The rest of the day passed in relative somberness. They napped, rested, tiptoed around each other from time to time, and Sherlock kept a lower profile than usual just given how lousy he was feeling. John left his mobile on silent, not wishing to be disturbed. He ignored the messages that came through and hoped that, when Sherlock was feeling better, that they would be able to talk a bit about Sherlock's strategy to prevent further relapse.

One of the messages he ignored was from Mycroft. One Holmes at a time, for the moment anyway, John figured, was enough to deal with.

++

In hindsight, he should have realised that to ignore Mycroft was courting an unwelcome visit.

Mycroft, of course, was in their sitting room when John stumbled out of the loo the following morning. Neither had slept well, with Sherlock's head pounding and John simply running on catecholamine surges and unable to settle to sleep well. Something about having gone through another recurrence, a physical setback, his body and his mind seemed too keyed up to fall into a deep sleep. The vigilance from his army days, the necessity of being a light sleeper, returned with a vengeance and allowed for very minimal rest. So when John spied Mycroft, all he could do was groan slightly and tie his dressing gown around him.

"Something I can help you with?"

"You know why I'm here."

"I know that neither of us invited you."

"I'm here out of brotherly concern." Mycroft at baseline was almost always serious and icy, and this was certainly no exception. "And I had requested an update."

"You don't take being ignored well."

"Indeed. Hence, the visit."

"I'll tell Sherlock you stopped by." He kept walking, put on coffee, and said nothing further to Mycroft.

"You realise, Dr. Watson," he said coolly, "that I have quite a few resources at my disposal. Not to mention connections that can possibly spare the both of you a bit of trouble. From a legal standpoint, given that his employment depends on --"

"Stop."

Mycroft had stood, ready to launch into a dissertation about perhaps how he could pull strings, call in a favour, or otherwise somehow spare Sherlock having to deal with the unpleasantness.

"This is none of your business. Sherlock knows how to reach you, and if he determines that he needs your assistance, I'm sure he'll --"

"I won't."

Both John and Mycroft looked up at the rather flat, baritone voice, quietly spoken into their conversation. Sherlock stood in the hallway, hair sticking up at all angles. "I'm fine."

Both of them took in the fatigue, the defeat, the obvious lie he was speaking.

Sherlock was undeterred. "Get out."

"You're not fine. Clearly."

"John, make him leave."

"You need my assistance again, brother mine." With a haughty raising of his head in Sherlock's direction, Mycroft said, "I thought perhaps you would outgrow this ..."

"That's enough." He interrupted before Sherlock would be further insulted. "Mycroft, please," John began, thinking he would soon resort to bodily force - with pleasure - to get rid of him.

Mycroft gazed steadily at John, bright eyed and intense. To his credit, he did not restate his offer but clearly seemed to indicate that he wanted John to make contact when he said, "You know where I can be reached."

With sudden insight into their years of patterned behaviour, John looked hard at Sherlock to make sure he was all right for a moment, and then cocked his head at Mycroft and then toward the door. "A word, please." He left no room for argument, and waited impatiently for Mycroft to follow him through the door and out into the hallway. With a low, threatening, exhausted voice, he pointed a finger at Mycroft. "You have got to stop sparing him the logical consequences of his behaviour. Let him get fired, if that's what is going to happen." _God please don't let him lose this job that he loves._ "Let him deal with a support group or rehab or criminal charges. If you keep bailing him out or running interference and sparing him from reaping what he's sown, he may never get it. You are not his safety net." Mycroft looked ready to respond to that, but John quickly added, "And neither am I." He didn't wait for Mycroft to say anything, and went back inside to find Sherlock.

++

The following day, after they both managed a few more restorative hours of sleep, Sherlock was starting to feel better though he was still subdued. John had just put on the kettle for a second round of tea when there was a distant knock. They could hear Mrs. Hudson, an answering deep voice, a few chuckles, and the encouragement to 'go right on up, dear.'

Both recognised the voice at the same time. Greg Lestrade. John caught Sherlock's eye, tried to smile reassuringly, but of course they both knew better than to think it was a purely social visit.

John answered the door, and Greg came inside. His eyes took in both John's and Sherlock's demeanor, their serious expressions, the state of the flat. Conversation was both awkward and stilted for a few minutes. John could tell from just the expression on Greg's face and in the somber eyes that this was not going to be an easy conversation.

"First off, that was an awful scene." He glanced at John, who was nodding and serious, Sherlock having filled him in enough to understand the conversation. "I'm sorry you saw all that. It was upsetting for my force, too. We all, you included, did the best with what we had." He echoed John's words earlier, that none of them were at fault, that sometimes there are still negative outcomes. "I have some questions about the other night, though, your observations, just wrapping up my final report." He withdrew his small notebook, waited for Sherlock to nod. "Do you recall the first thing you saw? The first impression about the body angle?"

Sherlock was stoic, his answers quiet and short, factual with no narration or snide comments, another indication that there was a shoe about to drop. A few minutes went by, with Greg making notes, a few items for further investigation, and finally Greg closed and pocketed his notepad.

"So one last thing." From inside his jacket, he pulled out a lab referral slip and handed it over.

Sherlock's hand reached for it, but he drew his hand back without taking it. "No."

"Non-negotiable."

John was watching quite closely, could see the perspiration on the back of Sherlock's neck, the way he brushed his sweaty palms against his thighs, the hard swallow. "I'm not doing it."

"Sherlock," John prompted, hoping for a moment where he could at least catch his eye, smile, caution, remind him that he wasn't alone.

"A waste of resources. Don't even bother."

Greg stared, his eyes dark and tired under his silver fringe. "Oh?"

"You said one slip up and that was it." With a low, resolute voice, he re-stated Greg's long-ago words quietly.

"Yes, I did." Greg shrugged, also looking a bit queasy. His steely eyes flicked between the two of them - Sherlock downcast, John concerned, watching them both. He thought perhaps that Greg would have expounded on his position or perhaps - hopefully - qualify his earlier position.

"I'll save you the trouble. It's positive."

"I see."

John cleared his throat. "What is department policy for a positive tox screen, then, for your division?" John could feel the tension radiating off of Sherlock. "I can understand for some positions that a mistake could and should be quite serious, but, if it's not in this case..." He could feel the rambling, the potential storm on the horizon, the personal concern, and let an off-handed gesture finish his sentence.

"It can be. One positive screen can be grounds for dismissal." Greg looked almost apologetically at them both. "It was a specific condition of his hire, as you recall."

"Can be grounds." Sherlock had heard the qualification. "What exactly does that mean?"

"It's at my discretion, to a degree, along with my IPCC." Greg did not need to explain the Interdepartmental Police Complaints Commission. "And the recommendations from Professional Standards Review Board." Greg glanced from Sherlock to John, letting his gaze linger there while John stared back. "But the sample is going to be required either way, officially." This time when he held out the lab slip, Sherlock took it.

John nodded, hoping that whatever was in store for Sherlock, that it would be what was best for him. He wondered about mercy, thought perhaps this time, that repercussions might be needed, that he would indeed learn the lesson more fully, the hard way. "What's the precedent?"

"It varies." He looked as if he wished he were anywhere else but there talking with them about this. "What's it going to light up for?"

Sherlock was still looking down, staring but probably not actually seeing the form. "Opiates," John answered when Sherlock didn't. Or couldn't.

Greg's countenance was truly sad, his movements quiet, his eyes regretful. He patted his notebook. "Thanks for the information, anyway. You'll have until tonight to submit that drug test."

"Can you at least throw out some expectations, so he knows a range of what we're looking at here?" John could see Sherlock seem to fold inward, frowning a bit, growing quieter.

Greg's wistful, sad smile did not bode well, in John's opinion. "Recommendations are going to be anywhere from suspension for a period of time to dismissal." Greg turned to look Sherlock in the eye.  "And if you manage to keep your job, there will be other conditions imposed, I'm certain of that."

"Conditions," Sherlock said, in a tired voice. "Of course."

"Recommendations for things such as inpatient treatment, outpatient services, support group, a sponsor. Restrictions on access, perhaps." Greg put on his jacket but did not move toward the door. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry this happened. I tried to warn you that night to stay away when it all went tits up, remember?" John hadn't known that. "For now though, take care of yourself. And lay low." All of Greg's face, the set of his eyes, spoke to the sincerity of his compassion, his pity, his sensitivity toward Sherlock.

Greg had been gone nearly an hour when Sherlock finally spoke. "Will you go with me to the clinic?" He was staring at the lab slip.

"Of course." John was quick to agree. "You up for that?"

"Not much choice, is there?" It took much longer than usual, just given that Sherlock wasn't feeling well and reeling a bit from the encounter with Greg, but they dressed and visited the laboratory clinic with barely any words spoken between them.

Once they were on the tube headed back to the station closest to Baker Street, Sherlock leaned his head back and closed his eyes. John patted his leg. "Don't borrow trouble, yeah?"

"I didn't expect that. I really...  I was so sure... I thought they ... needed me too much, that it wouldn't happen to me."

"High stakes, to be sure."

"I thought I was safe."

It was a heavy confession, and rather insightful, and it echoed with John's experience. Quietly, he nodded and then spoke. "I did too, back in Afghanistan. Safe as could be expected. I let my guard down, I think. Wasn't vigilant enough. Like you."

"Will you help me get rid of the rest of it?"

"I will."

"As soon as we get home?"

"And we can take it all right over to my office for safe disposal, if that's all right with you."

"God yes."

John could feel some of the tension ease within his chest. They still had quite a journey ahead, but it seemed they were back on track, and Sherlock had a new, more steady resolution about him.

Finally.

++

Sherlock had leaned forward, a concerned expression, seeking clarification. "Wait, let me get this straight. Sixty days from when it happened, or from now?"

"From the positive drug screen." Greg had rang earlier in the day, asked them to come to his office. Though Sherlock had asked, Greg had refused to say even one more word about the purpose. All of them knew, of course.

The day of reckoning.

He'd brought them both inside and immediately given Sherlock the details of the suspension that had been recommended. He handed Sherlock the paperwork, an employee performance improvement counseling form, and asked him to read over and then sign it.

"So I can at least work from home...?"

"No. You can't log hours or collect a paycheque. I'm sorry, but no, nothing. How many case files do you still have at home?"

Sherlock and John exchanged a look. Sherlock finally offered, "Maybe three or four." John worked hard at not narrowing his eye at Sherlock's falsely underestimated response. 

"They should be returned. I can send someone tomorrow."

"If you are out of your depth, I could --"

Shaking his head, Greg interrupted, a sad smile on his face as he could hear Sherlock's unsettled mind try to wrap around the consequences. "No."

"But --"

John put a hand on his arm, silencing him. "It's okay." His low murmur was certainly audible to Greg, but meant to keep Sherlock a bit calmer and from coming across as desperate as he was apparently feeling.

The biro scraped lightly over the paper, and Sherlock handed over both paper and writing instrument to Greg, who, apparently, wasn't quite done. "We'll be needing a completely clean drug test, prior to the end of the sixty days. And there will be a gradual schedule to ease you back in. I'll be in touch about that, as well as some other things the committee recommended. Conditions." Greg pulled out another lab slip, noted the sixty day mark on the form as well as the acceptable range to stop by the clinic again. "You should know - not that I should be telling you this, I suppose - but I tried like hell for thirty days. But I had to offset the one member who was pushing for dismissal."

John nodded, knowing that it could have gone that way. "Fair enough, I suppose. Thanks for trying."

++

"So I have something to tell you." John had waited to begin this conversation until they were nearly at their door.

"Do say, I can hardly stand the excitement. A new lot number of PG Tips tea perhaps, or did you finally throw out your white sock with the hole in the toe?" While John tried to decide if laughing would be hurtful to Sherlock, or risk his own bodily injury, Sherlock continued, scathingly, "Or should we go back to the park and measure the blades of grass at the same time each day to see if --"

"Shut it, you berk," John chuckled. Sherlock was certainly annoyed bordering on upset, but the prickliness was a good coping skill in John's opinion. Fussing was preferable to apathy. "I have a thought about your website, your _guidetodeduction_ , with the ash study."

"Yes, as you so like to point out, there aren't a lot of hits --"

John held up a hand, trying to be patient, knowing this was going to be a challenging remaining 57 days of their ... _confinement_ , he thought wryly. Surprisingly, Sherlock did stop talking so John could continue. "The son of one of my secretaries does website design, and is willing to --"

"No."

"You haven't even heard it."

"Child's play."

"Are you going to listen to me?"

"Are you going to say anything worth listening to?"

++

John removed the diaphragm of his stethoscope from the chest of the patient. The nurse who'd both summoned and forewarned him watched carefully from the other side of the bed. He caught her eye, nodded very slightly, and pocketed the scope.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Most likely." John picked up the medical record again. "So you had chest pain a couple of days ago?"

He shrugged. "It was after a 10 K. Nobody was feeling all that great, Captain. I didn't bother to come in then, it went away." John recalled that particular day, scorching heat and afternoon winds. He'd been medical officer on duty then too, and there'd been a few miscellaneous complaints, injuries, and two soldiers with heat exhaustion. "So?"

"And you came in today near syncopal?"

"Buddy made me stop in, bloody nag."

"Has anyone ever told you that you have a heart murmur?" The private stared hard at John, shook his head. "Ever have any cardiac testing, abnormalities, family history of anything unusual?"

"Grandfather died young, up and collapsed. But other than that, no, sir." John perused the intake form of the soldier from his enlistment six months previously. "You didn't have it at your initial physical."

"He didn't listen." The soldier blurted, and John looked up surprised. "Or if he did, it was barely anything. They were busy, the lines were long, it was a formality and a signature."

"Well, it's too soon to get excited. But I'm going to send you for an echocardiogram, check out what's making all those sounds in there."

"Okay," the soldier said slowly. "This won't get me sent home, will it?" John and the nurse exchanged a look again. "Because this is my career, sir, everything I've wanted."

"No one's saying that." John was quick to reassure him, despite the fact that it sounded ominous, and combined with the symptoms he'd had, it wasn't looking terribly promising. "We need more information."

"Don't send me home, Captain, please!"

John picked up the phone from the desk, rang the larger hospital a few kilometers away, got an appointment for later that morning. "Listen," John said, seeing the distress, "go get this done later, and we'll know. You can't jeopardise your health. More, the army won't let you."

"Dr. Watson, Captain, please, you gotta listen to me, I --"

"Stop, that's enough." John held up a hand. "I did listen to you, a few different ways, yeah?" and he pointed at the man's precordium to drive home his point, "and I will continue to listen. More importantly, you will also listen to me, is that clear?"

The eighteen year old stood, then, tugging his tee shirt back on, unhappy and silent. He did manage to nod once before leaving the office, paperwork tucked into his pocket and strict instructions not to blow off the appointment.

During their next conversation, later that afternoon, the young man did a lot of listening as John explained the severity of his condition - severe, symptomatic mitral stenosis - and treatment options, which definitely included discharge and would almost certainly require surgical repair or valve replacement. 

++

"Sometimes, yes, I do have rather important things to say."

"Debatable."

John had been waiting for the right moment, thought perhaps that the time had arrived, and he reached inside his collar to pull out the chain he'd been wearing. His tags clinked as he let them drop against his chest. Sherlock's eye was drawn to it, a quiet inhale, his pupils dilating a bit as he looked. "No more talking. Do you understand me?" He waited for a single nod. "Seriously, the insubordination, thank god your family didn't just send you off into a branch of whatever military service as a last ditch effort." He certainly had Sherlock's attention, and chose to stay silent until they were inside the flat. "As I was trying to explain to you," and he flicked his eyes to Sherlock's face, who was quite interested and equally restless, "it may be an option for you to solicit clients through a section of your website." He opened his laptop and waited for the website to load. "Managed to hack your password when you weren't looking, just out of sheer luck because you usually change it pretty frequently, so there's an unpublished section right here. I titled the tab, temporarily anyway, Consulting Detective Services," and he entered a login and then turned the computer, angled it so Sherlock could see it. "Potential clients, if they were searching for help, could check out your services, here, see?" and he pointed with the mouse, "and make contact via email through the website. You could screen potential cases, take the ones you want. Charge a moderate fee for service. A client or two would help with expenses, as well as keep you busy." John pushed the computer a little closer. "Check it out."

Sherlock was still wordless, as instructed, as he opened a few tabs, did a bit of searching. John waited until he'd opened most of the tabs and had looked back up at John. "If you have anything nice to say, I suppose that is permissible now."

"How soon can it be launched?"

"You're that interested?"

"Hopefully you realise that most of the requests are going to be of the ridiculous nature, spouse is cheating, I don't trust my kid, can't find my keys, my house is haunted. But it might be entertaining. And perhaps, as you said, something to do."

"I think it might be a good outlet for you. Make you less dependent on Greg for work."

"It wouldn't have anything to do with the Met."

"Completely separate," John agreed. "Your credentials don't matter, it's not like there's a no compete clause. And there's no governing agency over the job title consulting detective. But your methods are proven, and we could solicit a few recommendation letters, referrals, if you want, see what happens."

"Angelo, perhaps. He was pretty happy, all said." It had been quite a while ago now that Angelo, the restaurant owner, had been accused of one terrible crime but Sherlock had argued the facts of the matter that disproved his guilt and though he'd ended up still in some legal trouble, it was with a much more lenient sentence.

"If you're okay with it, I can get it posted this evening probably. We can edit things once that happens. You'll need a new email address, too."

"That is a rather impressive, clever idea, for an idiot."

"Sherlock."

"But of course, someone who would choose that jumper to wear probably has ..."

"Enough. My other ideas might involve naked hoovering, and last I checked, the shower needs a good scrub."

Sherlock smiled as he huffed a resigned sigh. With a long finger, he reached out to hook John's dogtags, pulled them up over his head carefully. "No. I think I have other ideas." He slid the chain around his own neck. Raising his chin, he quirked a brow at John. "Make contact, get this underway," he said, his tone low and steady, not quite as ordering as John could get, but the similarity was there. "And then I assure you, there will be no household duties."

John shook his head at Sherlock's boldness, and smirked a bit, amused. He was, in actuality, grateful Sherlock wasn't just sulking. "I have no issue with that." He sat a moment, scrolled through the computer into his email, composed a quick request and sent it off. "Now," John said, sliding close again and taking the chain and pendant from where it rested against Sherlock's sternum lightly in hand. Pulling gently until their lips were almost meeting, he snickered and let his other hand grab at Sherlock's belt as he pressed his lips against Sherlock's, "I might be rather interested in some of those ideas of yours."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have decided, given recent RL obligations, that I am posting what I have done and crossing my fingers that it's at a good stopping point. So here it is, warts and all. The latter part of this chapter (which is now being pushed to the next chapter) is mostly still stuck in my head. 
> 
> This has been such a wild ride to write. While the characters are still up to some antics and occasionally give me the three am wake up ideas, I think it's almost time to put this piece to bed. Almost. There are two really intriguing points that I will be getting the boys into in the epilogue, and I can't wait to share them with you.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading. Your comments are like a smooth sip of Pinot Noir.
> 
> ++
> 
> And there is another one brewing, a John whump this time.


	24. Twist on a Domestic Chore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By special request. Alternate Title: Naked Hoovering
> 
> You all made me do this. You know who you are [and I appreciate each one of you]!!!
> 
> ++
> 
> Don't try this at home. This would be a bad idea for many reasons.

John arrived home from work, exhausted, feeling the niggling of the beginnings of a scratchy throat.  No surprise given that every patient he'd seen for the last few long shifts at the clinic had come in, talked, spluttered, spit, blew, coughed, sneezed, and shared whatever they were able: Bacteria, viruses, germs, or some other form of bodily fluids, contamination, some other vector. At least there had been no discoveries of head lice, like one of the nurses had discovered.

He was looking forward to _home_ , putting his feet on coffee table, relaxing with Sherlock, and not moving much as they had dinner, watched crap telly, and maybe enjoyed a relaxing sip of something malted. And expensive. Then later, perhaps a playful encounter between the sheets before falling sweetly and quickly to sleep, the occasional limb touching, reassuring, connecting.

The tube was crowded, standing room only, and each time a person coughed or sneezed, John could just imagine the germs spreading, prowling, searching for him. Moving a few steps away from one symptomatic person nearby seemed to then put him closer to another patient zero. Although he was certainly not a germophobe, he'd had enough for the day, so he got off a stop early, decided to walk and hoped that the fresh air would perhaps help at least dilute what he'd been exposed to.

His block, on Baker Street, however, seemed busier than usual. Something had recently dispersed, perhaps. Traffic jam, car crash, disabled vehicle, street performer even. There was still a cluster of people not far from John's door, and a panda car drove past him. Out of the corner of his eye, too late to recognise the driver, John caught the glimpse of someone waving at him. Odd. He checked his mobile. No messages, but then John realised that didn't necessarily mean anything and the presence - or absence - of a text was not necessarily reassuring.

Speedy's patrons inside the cafe seemed as if they'd just all sat back down, shifting coats and sliding into booths, getting comfortable. John took a small observation that at least they were open for business. Nothing catastrophic then.

Although...

His own doorway that led up the stairs to 221B was open. A few people, one in a fire marshal's uniform and another wearing a utility badge, passed him. No one spoke. Mrs. Hudson's door was also open, but there was no sign of her one way or the other.

John skittered up the stairs to the open door of his flat. Voices and a few people were inside. If the outside of the flat was busy, the inside was chaos. Powder, feathers, soot, dust, mist, puffs of vapour, and small clouds in the air greeted him. Mrs. Hudson saw him, crossed the room, her head shaking in annoyance, lips pressed tightly in aggravation, and silently she glared even at him - newly on scene, obviously innocent - as she left. Vaguely John was aware that there was some stomping down the stairs, best as her hip could do, and the slamming of a door.

Briefly, he toyed with the possibility of hitting her up later for an herbal soother. God knew he needed it.

John turned back to the sitting room, which was emptying out of a few stragglers wearing boots and jackets, a torch or two, and people apparently quite ready to leave. Greg was there, an arm on his hip as he stood silently, narrowed eyes looking on at Sherlock with displeasure. John cleared his throat to get Greg's attention. As soon as Greg saw the stormy, stony, and somewhat puzzled look on John's face, he turned toward Sherlock. There was a silent, pointed glare before turning away. To John he said, "I'll just leave you to this, then."

The flat was a disaster, and John and Sherlock were now alone in it. Both of them, unsurprisingly, were scowling.

++

"I still don't quite understand how a very intelligent, problem solving, analytical _bloody genius_ could have let this happen." John had heard the story, sought clarifications and repetitions, and was still shaking his head. There had been a criminal case to review about an overstuffed down coat and a wind tunnel that John didn't even try to remember the specifics of, and somehow Sherlock had reversed the bag of the hoover and disemboweled a down pillow in an attempt to recreate conditions of a crime scene. "And that doesn't explain the presence of talcum powder at all."

"I needed to determine at what motor speed the suction ..." Weakly, Sherlock's voice trailed off. "Turbulent air patterns of ..." He gave up trying to explain. It simply didn't matter anymore. Somewhat abashedly, he muttered, "At least nothing exploded." John's gaze snapped to his face. "Or caught fire."

John had considered sitting down, but every surface was covered in a layer of dust and feathers and so he was still standing, looking at Sherlock. Blink. Blink.

Sherlock, whose zest for life and insatiable quest for information was both a blessing and a curse, glanced back, taking it all in. His blue eyes were finally grasping the outrageous, domestic mess, and as he looked back at John, a feather, detritus from the earlier annihilation of said pillow, loosened from his fringe and drifted lazily past his eyes, nose, rocking gently back and forth as it wafted down, and he blew it gently in John's direction.

John, knowing it was a bad, terrible, really a bit not good thing, couldn't help it -

He _giggled._

The giggle grew, turned into a chuckle, a laugh, a snort, and an all-out howl. Sherlock joined in, finally, and it was a few minutes later than John was wiping tears from his eyes and trying to calm down enough to speak.

"Only you would have even attempted this." John indicated the state of the room. "What exactly did you expect to happen?"

"You can't be that angry, if you're laughing." There was enough relief in his voice that gave away he'd been a bit concerned at John's reaction. Remorseful even.

"And how did the police get here again? The fire department _and_  power company?"

"A customer from Speedy's thought they smelled smoke, and then there was all this powder billowing through the heating ducts. Somehow, then, some _idiot_ pulled an alarm or something down there."

"I'm surprised Mycroft isn't here yet. Or making contact."

"Perish the thought."

John reached out to pluck another small, downy feather stuck on Sherlock's eyebrow. "Did you at least get the information you needed?"

"Mostly, I did." He frowned at John's scrutiny. "Well, not exactly, but I ruled out one of the suspects."

"Right, on a case you're not supposed to be working on."

"Yeah, Greg confiscated the file right off." Part of the changes to Sherlock's work conditions during this sixty days suspension was that he was not supposed to be doing any investigating for the Met. He had been instructed to surrender his case files, and had indeed turned four back in to Greg's office, but failed to mention the several he had kept hidden in the flat. "And he took the rest _."_

"You shouldn't be surprised at that. In fact, I'd think you should be grateful if Greg doesn't tack on additional time at the end for you having lied to him."

"You don't think --?"

"I hope not. You did give him _all_ of the ones you'd held back?"

There was an uncomfortable squint to Sherlock's face then, a twitch about his eyes, his lips narrowing, and John knew then, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he had not.

"Never mind, don't speak it out loud. I can at least say honestly that I didn't know if he asks, to the best of my knowledge anyway. I'm not about to be a co-conspirator." With a big sigh, John turned slowly there in the sitting room, his toe making a curved mark on the floor, a trail in the silt. "Did I get to mention yet that I had a lousy day and was really looking forward to relaxing this evening?"

"How's that working out for you?"

"Oh, it's going to work out just fine. I'm going to wipe down the telly, the coffee table, and my chair. I'm going to order dinner to be delivered, Thai I think tonight. _My_ evening is simply getting a delayed start."

"But --" Sherlock began to gesture at the mess.

"But nothing. This is all your doing."

"A caring partner would help."

"A caring partner would not have nearly destroyed and made nearly uninhabitable the shared living accommodations." John moved to the kitchen, where the damage was slightly less, the layer of dust a bit thinner. The one room was bad enough. Procuring a few cleaning supplies, he did as he said he was going to, removing the layer of debris from what he needed, and left the supplies next to Sherlock. While he perused the menu and ordered dinner, Sherlock did - with an ample amount of complaining about the day, the task, John's methods, the show on the telly, the idiotic Speedy's customer who sounded the alarm unjustifiably, and the fact that no one was bloody helping him - begin to work.

"You interested in taking a break for supper?" John asked, after the takeaway food had been delivered. Gradually, the dirt was giving way to their furniture again, shelves wiped down, colours emerging. Between bites, John tried to be encouraging. "You're making quite a bit of progress, you know."

Sherlock stood stiffly, arching his back with a bit of a grimace, and shot John a dirty look.

"Sorry to offer, just a question." There was a bit of grumbling, low and intentionally garbled enough that John wasn't able to make it out but he was fairly certain it contained the word 'help.' "Beg pardon?" Dinner was making John feel a bit better, less irritated.

There was a bit of perspiration at his temple, and Sherlock swiped at it, glaring at John.

"I'm sorry, are you irritated at my having offered you a few minutes rest over dinner, or are you still offended at having to clean up the mess _you_ made?"

"You could help. It's not that ridiculous an assertion."

"I think you're doing just fine. Learning from your mistakes, seeing the fallout from your own decisions."

"You could be less of an arsehole and, if you're not going to help, at least you could stop mocking me."

John set aside everything that had been on his lap and stood up. "Oh, Sherlock," he said calmly. "I'm definitely going to help you."

"What are you going on about?" Sherlock muttered, watching John warily.

"I'm going," John said quietly, "to _help."_

_Yes, indeed._

++

"Your version of help needs work," Sherlock growled, stopping to confront John.

He'd brushed, wiped, swept, and piled while under John's careful and watchful eye. A few minutes later, Sherlock had stopped to stare hard at John, displeased. With a small chuckle, John had finally nodded his terse approval. "Wanted to make sure you got started well. When you're done the surface parts, you can reassemble the hoover."

"Sounds like something a surgeon would be better at." Sherlock had gone directly for a manipulative, underhanded compliment.

"Retired surgeon."

"Good with your hands, John, do keep up. It's not microvascular remodeling or anything. Or delicate neurosurgery."

John had held his ground, steady and calm. "Are you claiming you can't do it?" Sherlock opened his mouth immediately, but then apparently thought better of fussing about that, snapped his mouth closed. "Because best I can tell, you're the one that took it apart the first time, swapped out hoses, switched around the intake." Sherlock's jaws clenched. "So don't try to claim that you don't know what you're doing."

"If I put it back together correctly, will you run it?"

"Let's see, um, no. Didn't make the mess. And won't have the collateral damage foisted off on me." John had continued where he stood, waiting, watching, supervising.

Sherlock was still waiting for John's response. "My version of help," John echoed, "is definitely helping you."

"I disagree."

"I'm even," John continued slowly, taking a step back from Sherlock, "going to make sure you never forget this." From his pocket, he pulled out his mobile, snapped a quick photo of Sherlock standing there, cleaning rag in hand, pieces of non-functioning vacuum in the foreground, dust on his nose and aggravation on his face. "Probably not suitable for your new website, you know, marketing and all." Sherlock glared. "I have some readers if you want to look a bit more respectable."

"You are such a bloody wanker."

"Keep going." John pondered the time. "It's getting late, and Mrs. Hudson would probably appreciate this not going on into the wee hours."

Sherlock rinsed out the cloth, glaring harshly at John, the flat, the mess, and the hoover.

With a wry smile, John then approached the vacuum, unplugged it, and pulled it aside to allow better access. Sherlock's arm slowed down from the cleaning, then stopped, a watchful, hopeful expression on his face. "Keep at it, and maybe, just maybe, I'll perhaps...  I suppose I could be persuaded to reassemble this for you."

"You wouldn't tease about that?!"

John raised a brow as he picked up one of the hoses. "You're going to finish this, and do the actual hoovering, mind."

"But you'll put it together, really?"

"I'm not heartless, you know." John made a face at Sherlock's dubious expression. "Not _that_ heartless, anyway."

"That piece goes --"

"Shut it. I know what I'm doing." A few minutes later, Sherlock had moved on to another section and the hoover had been plugged back in, tested, and seemed to be back to it's usual, pre-deconstructed state of useful practicality. "When you're ready, then." Sherlock apparently attempted to make the hoover explode with his death glare. "You're welcome, by the way."

John barely got his legs out of the way as Sherlock reached out in an unsuccessful attempt to grab for him.

"You know, Sherlock," John said, pondering Sherlock and the room, the hoover, and the mess. Without explanation, on silent feet he crossed the room and locked the door before continuing to speak, "given that hoovering could be a rather aerobic activity, I do think this is going to work out much better for you without your shirt."

"What? Seriously?"

"And without your shoes and socks, while you're at it." While Sherlock watched him with very big eyes, wide open, searching for hints of teasing, seriousness, or a possible loophole, John raised an eyebrow, glaring, and pointed at Sherlock's neck. "Shirt first. Off."

"This is you being helpful?" Sherlock said, still not moving.

"Trust me." John could see the moment Sherlock decided to do so, when his eyes sought John's again, questioning, and John simply nodded slightly, smiled, and gestured for him to _please continue._

Sherlock's fingers slowly moved to his collar, the low profile button between his thumb and index finger sliding through cloth. There was a slight flush about his neck as he did so. One, two, three ...

The riveting gaze John turned on him could only be described as highly entertained. _Oh, yes, the game is on._

++

"You're just being cruel now," Sherlock whinged, pushing the hoover over toward the window as John requested. "Because this is --"

John tucked his knees behind Sherlock's, his jeans tucking into the bare skin of Sherlock's legs, crooning, "Slow down, you're missing spots," and John brushed his hand over Sherlock's, which rested along the vacuum handle, slowing it down and the two of their hands then directing it over toward the baseboard together. "Slower, and it works better. Prolong the suction, yeah? Like that," John whispered, his mouth and lips connecting timidly with the back of Sherlock's neck. He tasted very faintly of sweat and dust.

"I hate you," Sherlock hissed, though his words were offset and undermined by the jut of his pelvis back against John's body. "You're bloody awful."

"Promise," John whispered again, "to make it all worth your while. Looks like the canister needs to be emptied again."

"I just did it."

"It's full. Losing power."

"You do it."

"You're the one holding the hoover. This is your job, remember?" John let his lips trail along Sherlock's shoulder, wiping the back of Sherlock's neck with a clean damp towel so that he could suck feistily along the back of his neck. "Though I think you might still be overdressed. Shut it off again."

A huff from the taller, nearly naked man. The only thing he was still wearing were his pants, some cotton blended gray numbers, boxer-briefs. The rest had come off gradually under John's direction. "I hate you." This time when he said it, it was somewhat less convincing as John's mouth left a wet mark along his deltoid muscle.

"You don't mean that. Maybe I'll make you scream my name before the night is over," John breathed into Sherlock's hair, being careful not to inhale too much dust. "Now empty the damn canister."

Sherlock sighed, wisely keeping quiet, using the large trash bag carefully, which was becoming increasingly full of feathers and dust. "Happy?" he all but snarled in a quiet voice.

"Not yet," John said, his hands holding lightly onto Sherlock's ribs from where he was still standing behind him. "Take off the pants."

"No."

"I said, take them --"

"You finish the hoovering, then." Sherlock snapped, angling the handle over toward John's direction, an offer, a plea.

"Oi no. You're not done here." John stared back hard, his mouth trying hard not to curve into a small smile. But he wasn't entirely successful, and Sherlock of course, _saw_.

"This is --" Sherlock began to complain, a sparkle in his eye.

"Your choice: take them off now, or you might not like what you do - or don't - get later." John nipped snarkily at the back of his neck.

"And then again I might," Sherlock breathed back, his head tipping back against John's body.

"Maybe," John said low and gravelly, "I'll just help you get rid of them." He chuckled again as Sherlock hoovered the same stripe of carpet for the third, fourth time. "I think you already got that spot."

"You're distracting me," he said, giving a little shake to get away from John's touch.

"It'll go better for you if you cooperate." A low chuckle sounded from deep in John's chest, a rippling promise that was not lost on either of them. "I'll finish, and you won't, then. And I'm not talking about _finishing_ the hoovering." John reached around Sherlock then, shut off the machine again, then tucked his hands inside the waistband of Sherlock's pants. His fingers slid down and around the curve of Sherlock's bum, firmly. The tilt of Sherlock's pelvis into and against John's hands was telling. He was aware, his skin warm and thrumming under John's warm touch, and it was obvious Sherlock _wanted,_ and though he was fussing, he was willing putty in John's hands."So do as I say, clean up your mess, and we'll both enjoy tonight."

"I want --"

"Trust me, it'll be worth it."

_"John, please."_

John slid his hands further down Sherlock's legs, taking the pants with him, helping him step out of them carefully.

He stood back, admiring, looking, thinking how odd it was that a naked man holding a household cleaning appliance could take his breath away. He hoped, with wry humour, it was arousal and not lung damage from inhalation of air pollutants. Clearing his throat, looking pointedly with approval at Sherlock with his eyes, starting at his face and working downward, he said quietly, "Go ahead then."

Sherlock hit the on switch again, gripping the handle tightly, and kept to the chore at hand. The rest of the room, he took in carefully, considering what was still needed, finishing in one corner completely so he could work his way around.

John stood a few steps away, arms crossed, admiring his lanky partner who was in fact making good progress now, until he could keep his hands to himself no longer. The tease of Sherlock's leg muscles, powerful but lean thighs tensing, gluteus maximus slightly changing shape as he moved, and _god, those dimples!_ There were biceps, triceps, latissimus dorsi, toned and flexing, Sherlock's shoulders defined and solid. Sidling up behind him, he brushed down Sherlock's sides, his palms coming to rest on Sherlock's trim hipbones, thumbs resting lightly on the curve and divots on Sherlock's lower back. He leaned in close, inhaling behind Sherlock's ear, the faint scent of dust and sweat and a vague hint of his remaining posh body wash. "Sorry to say," he began, and then moved his hands around to Sherlock's lower abdomen but leaving them there, "you missed a spot."

John's hand hesitated, not reaching for Sherlock's groin but hinting at it enough. They were both a little sweaty, interested, anxious. "So are you, John, you're missing ..." Sherlock said intensely, frozen in place. Obviously he wanted John's hand to move, take him, provide friction or relief. Or both. There was frustrated exhale, the hint of a grinding movement of Sherlock's pelvis...

John, his hand trembling against Sherlock's flat belly, breathed again, coming around to face Sherlock, his clothed body brushing tentatively along Sherlock's side. The power dynamic just based on clothing alone, John fully dressed, Sherlock not at all, lent itself to their interplay. John exhaled lightly against Sherlock's clavicle, leaning down to lick at his skin, his breath ticking down along toward Sherlock's waist. Sherlock's hands were white-knuckling it against the handle of the vacuum. "Room's nearly done, I suggest you finish." John stepped back from Sherlock's body then, waiting for him to complete the task. When Sherlock remained mostly motionless, John reached forward, snapped on the hoover again, and it roared to life. "Get a move on, then." His voice was low and careful. "You have five minutes to finish this room."

"Or else?"

"No." John stood back then, removing his hands. "Five minutes to finish. Very do-able. And then," John leaned around, licking and then blowing on the nipple nearest him, "and then I think a shower might be in order. I could be persuaded to join you. And then," John growled a little, raising his head to nip at Sherlock's stubbled jaw, "I will finish. And finish you. Perhaps if you're well-behaved, both of those might occur at the same time."

++

On the way to the loo, where Sherlock had already turned on the shower as instructed, John's mobile buzzed. And buzzed again in short succession.

**I see just another uneventful day on Baker Street. Mycroft.**

**I trust the environmental clean up is going well. MH**

**I would offer assistance but it seems to me it would be both unwise and unaccepted. You remember, consequences and such that you'd fussed about. MH**

**I'll leave you to it, then. Carry on, Dr. Watson. MH**

++

Oh, John, thought, I fully intend to. He put his mobile on silent, set it aside, still smiling.

++

Freshly washed skin, bright and clean, pressed up toward John's mouth and Sherlock's hand fisted in the sheets. "John, please," Sherlock whispered again.

"You looked hot with a hoover in your hands."

"You were quite unhelpful, with your staring at my bum and ...  Nevermind."

"I helped you plenty. And I enjoyed the view while I was at it."

"Thank god you're not this _helpful_ at a crime scene. I mean, when we could, _before..."_

"I know what you meant." John would have said more except that his lips were trailing down along the edges of Sherlock's ribs, nuzzling, his skin still radiating heat from the shower.

"Oh shut up and --"

"Patience."

Lifting his head, John sat up as his eyes raised to see Sherlock's face. A damp curl strayed across an eyebrow, and John pressed it out of the way. Beneath his gaze, Sherlock rolled his hips up toward John's body, both of them quite hard and wanting. _"Johnnnn."_

They both recalled John's earlier statement that Sherlock would be calling his name. John smiled again, feeling every bit like they'd dragged this on long enough. "On second thought, perhaps patience is a bit overrated."

++

"The room is ridiculously too warm."

"Body heat. Breathing." John glanced over. Both of them were panting a bit, skin perspiring, eyes bright, bodies sated as they recovered. He watched Sherlock's chest rise, fall, his shoulders relaxed, his beautiful smile genuine and warm. "Maybe now," Sherlock continued, "you can stop obsessing about the bloody hoovering."

"What?"

"Oh, don't try to deny it. Ever since that night, when we went out and you wore your fatigues, you threatened me with hoovering. You've been thinking about it since."

"I have not."

"Yes, I can tell, once you mentioned it, that you could consider ordering me, you even used the words naked hoovering."

John watched Sherlock steadily, their heads on respective pillows, their fingers touching, both in a comfortable, post-orgasmic blissful state. It had been quite a build-up, of tension, of anticipation. Then the shower, and the yearning, and once things had begun, the rise to the peak, the crest, the throbbing had come, enveloped them both, relief imminent and wonderful. "Okay, maybe a time or two."

"Well, we did it, so check it off your list. Settle down, now that we've done it, now that you've had your fantasy fulfilled."

"This was not a fantasy."

"Sure it was." Sherlock chuckled. "And I bet you have a few more in mind, too."

"I do not."

"More's the pity. Because I bloody enjoyed it." Sherlock pushed up on an elbow, leaned over to kiss John's temple, then flicked off the light. "Well, most of it anyway." John breathed deep, relaxing into the mattress, until Sherlock spoke again. "As I knew you would."

He looked over, curious. "You didn't do this on purpose, did you? I mean, even you wouldn't ..."

There was an immediate flush to his cheeks. "Not exactly."

"Seriously, Sherlock. What on earth...?" John chuckled again at the madness of his nutter flatmate. "You did, didn't you. Started out with an idle thought. Got out of hand, didn't it?"

Sherlock pursed his lips, avoiding any eye contact, seemingly embarrassed. "Perhaps," he finally said.

"Worked out okay in the end, I suppose." John's tone was quite amused.

"Oh god, you and your double meanings. Stop."

"A satisfying outcome."

_"John."_

"Well, all I can say is that your ideas will certainly keep boredom away, yeah?" He reached out to brush his hand lightly over Sherlock's arm and then across his ribs. "Any other bright ideas?" Stubbornly, Sherlock kept his eyes averted, his jaw clenched. "Oh come now, I'm sure you do. Because if you don't have a few other ideas, I definitely do."

"No more household chore fantasies."

"You have something in mind, yourself?" At that question, Sherlock looked over finally, eyes bright and a cat-that-ate-the-canary expression. John sighed, shakily, intrigued and a bit hesitant about giving Sherlock free reign. "Apparently you do."

"It might involve you begging for mercy." John gulped when Sherlock chuckled, a low, sensual sound. "Twice." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I added a tag Naked Hoovering, does it detract from the rest of the piece? ;-)  
> __
> 
> I had a blast with this chapter, actually. I hope it turned out all right. Let me know gently if something got too out of hand.  
> __
> 
> So the cracky chapter is over. (Please no more ideas. Well, okay, ideas are always fun...) One more chapter, some patchy ideas of things that still need some resolution before putting this piece - and our OTP - to bed.


	25. Final Musings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because ... reasons like loose ends and assured happy endings.
> 
> Because I said so.
> 
> Because John Watson loves Sherlock Holmes. And because Sherlock Holmes is also _smitten_.
> 
> Because reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Separate snippets as the story winds down all either beginning or ending in bed, with a few extra little scenes thrown in for good measure.

John heard a distant church bell, seven bells tolling, the echo warm, the sound soft and full.

And unfamiliar.

 _Right. Not in London._ His mind engaged as he remembered.

The warm body in the bed next to him snuffled, a repositioning of the pillow, and for a moment, John wasn't sure if he was looking at the back of Sherlock's head or the top. Another rolling shift, and a forehead, eyebrows, and closed eyes with long lashes appeared. Top, then.

Seven am, too early to get too excited about the day outside of their hotel room yet. He rolled over and scooted closer, tucking his bare back against Sherlock's bare front. An arm, as expected, coiled around his middle, drawing him close. He exhaled, comfortable and secure, as Sherlock's breathing also settled, evened out. Between their bodies, the small space, the warm air an insulated comfortable state of being.

Back to sleep a moment then, perhaps, the day without significant deadlines or urgent matters for the morning.

The bells tolled again later, soft, echo more muted against the sounds of the city awakening. This time, Sherlock's arm tightened a bit, and there was the faintest awareness of other body parts, deeper under the duvet shifting, filling, poking, making their presence known. Part reflex, part simmering desire, John wriggled his hips back against Sherlock.

"Oh yeah?" Sherlock's voice was gravelly and rough, sweet and quiet against John's ear.

"I was thinking, yeah, might be a nice way to start the day."

"Indeed." Sherlock's hand reached between them, adjusting John's body angle, sliding his erection such that it could move unhindered. So that it could fill and thicken against the top of John's thighs.

A stretch, a long arm snatching the bottle of lube, a snap open, the sounds of application, of skin. Sliding, gently gliding, a sharp inhale, John's cautionary hand against Sherlock's hip, fingertips making small indentations - _wait, please, give me a moment_ \- and an immediate freeze - _long as you need._

A second, a lifetime later, Sherlock's whisper, "You good?"

John's pursed-lipped puff of air. "Oh yes."

Sherlock's hand came forward to find John's already there, already pressing, his fist a circle, the friction delightful and even better once Sherlock's hand got involved. They were warm under the covers, hands and bodies, skin and legs, breathing and moving.

_god yes_

_just like that_

_wait, more, yes, don't stop_

_you close?_

_oh yes, right there, god_

_i can't wait_

_harder_

_hurry, I'm gonna_

_together then?_

_oh god_

and then joint gasps, pauses, hesitations, a crest, a peak, a shudder, and tense muscles slowly relaxing, that sated moment of satisfaction, pleasure, relief. Mutually spent.

A few moments, Sherlock's lips against John's shoulder, John's head arching back toward Sherlock's jaw, connected, intimate, aware, together.

"Want to shower first?" John asked, knowing Sherlock, post orgasm, usually enjoyed a few minutes abed. He didn't wait for much of an answer, didn't expect one, his feet touching the floor, the day beginning.

++

"Travel?" Sherlock had asked, skeptical and with distaste. "Why on _earth_ would we want to do that?"

"Well, I can think of a few places we could go. Your website and the work you get from it makes you pretty portable these days. You barely ever need to actually meet with anyone or visit an actual scene."

"Because people are idiots and if they applied themselves a little more they would already know the bloody answer."

"Paycheque for you. More opportunities to call them idiots."

"As if I need to go looking for that."

John forged ahead. "And with my mum's life insurance money, I could take a few weeks off." The settlement had been quickly decided, the cheque surprising for its existence, and the amount such that, in truth, John could take more than a few weeks. "It might be fun. And the timing is good."

"Where exactly do you want to go?"

John had tipped his head, treading carefully. "Well, for starters, maybe a couple of days, we could poke around Wales. Cardiff, anywhere really. We've never done that. A few days, someplace."

"Hastings."

"Yes, the crime museum you've been practically drooling over." John chuckled, knowing Sherlock had heard about it, looked into it, indeed had been quite curious about the place. "If you want, I suppose." Sherlock almost looked disappointed that an argument or protest was not forthcoming. "Although, actually, I was kind of thinking ..."

"Bloody out with it."

"... well, expanding a little, I'd like to show you Afghanistan."

"Desert, scorpions, sand, extreme heat, wind, fighting, unrest. Lovely."

"I just think now might be a good time to go, with your ... taking a break from working police cases."

"You can say suspension. It's not a secret from me, you know."

"Suspension." John smirked. "Mandatory disciplinary action. I can continue. Maybe enforced lay-off --"

"Stop, you're exciting me."

With another chuckle, he looked close at Sherlock's teasing manner, opted to continue with his earlier, more serious suggestion. "And then I thought, perhaps, if you're interested, we could think about stopping somewhere else on the way home, maybe go find that hospital in France, only if you wanted." He spoke gently, careful not to push, and very much with a question, definitely looking for input. The hospital he'd mentioned, the rest of the description didn't need to be said: _The hospital from when you were sixteen, from the treatments you don't remember, from the details hidden from you until recently._

Every now and again in those rare moments it was even discussed, he'd expressed a bit of frustration at not even remembering the area, most of the circumstance, the location, the building. Sherlock had stilled, his mind apparently whirling, his mouth quiet, body seemingly hibernating, brain deep in thought.

"We don't have to, it was just a --"

"No. Let's do that." Sherlock's voice was steady, confident. "I'd like to see it. With you." He smiled a bit then, a small, warm smile. "And Afghanistan, absolutely yes to that as well. You'd like to meet Ramin again, as would I."

"I was hoping."

He nodded again, more confident, smiling and interested.

++

Afghanistan details, coordinated with one of the RAMC offices as well as the necessity of involving Mycroft for some of the logistical permissions, had come together well. They wouldn't stay long on base, only a couple of days, and then a Saturday afternoon visit with Ramin had been scheduled, too. Only a few soldiers remained whom John would have even known, most of them having moved on, been discharged, or transferred somewhere else. The visit to the base was almost impersonal, with very little emotion. The list of Sherlock's prediction of Afghanistan did in fact have desert, scorpions, heat and wind, but was thankfully without fighting or unrest while they were there. John was able to visit the surgery, the various parts of the base, and he and Sherlock managed to stay out of trouble on their few evenings out in the town, keeping safely close to their accommodations.

Ramin, on the other hand, was very familiar, and had come with his parents to meet John and Sherlock. They'd arranged for an interpreter and chosen to meet just for a short time at Babur's Gardens, a rather green park with lots of history that had been recently restored. Terraces, long rock walls, a mosque, wide open grassy fields, and a self-guided walking tour was at least present for them if they needed it. And plenty of places to sit, walk, chat.

John and Sherlock had already gone inside when Ramin and his family arrived. 

"Oh god," John breathed, catching sight of three adults and a lanky adolescent coming toward them, "if that's them, wow. Look how much he's grown!"

Had he been planning, he would have been able to orchestrate nothing better. When Ramin caught sight of him, he pulled away from his family and approached John, running the last few steps. There was no hesitation, simply an embrace and a few English words, "hello" and "thank you."

Once the group was together, some pleasantries were exchanged, introductions all around. John spoke for a while with Ramin's parents, catching up a little, and then he tugged at the interpreter, gestured to a low stone wall, and sat near Ramin so they could talk.

_As I recall, you've had another birthday._

_Yes, I'm eleven now._

_I brought you something._

_Yes, I see it, the football._ Indeed, they had stopped at a store near their hotel and brought the ball in part to have something to do, and to then leave with Ramin to keep with him.

 _Well, that too, but something else._ John patted his jacket.

 _What is it?_ There was a smile of boyish excitement, and John was reminded again of how resilient children were, particularly when they had proper support.  _Show me, Dr. John!_

And from his pocket, John produced a new pen he'd ordered online. It was a matte silver one, a globe embossed at the base, the grips in green over a blue ocean background. He also handed over a very small writing notebook that easily would fit in a pocket, and gave it to Ramin to try.

Ramin considered it closely. _We studied in science, we are right -_ and he squinted, very serious _\- about here._ He showed John, his thumb over the Middle East.

_Very good_

_It's wonderful, thank you._

_I chose the world especially for you, so that you'll remember to think big as you grow up._ John tapped the image on the biro.

 _Think big. Like the mountains or the trees?_ Ramin was puzzled.

_Well sure, that, and even bigger. More like all the things you could do. Opportunity._

He did not specifically react to that, but his parents were listening, smiling, nodding.

_The biro does something else, too, Ramin. I'm sure you can figure it out._

He clicked it open, retracted the tip a few times, then noticed the small, flush button near the clip, pressed it. The LED lights shone from within the grip, lighting up the globe. Even in the daylight, it was a neat little feature.

 _Wow, cool!_ The translator chuckled, struggled for the correct English interpretation of the colloquialism, but the energy and excitement in Ramin's voice made it mostly unnecessary anyway. Ramin smiled broadly, spoke himself very deliberately, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," John said back, the interpreter assuring them both that the meaning was quite clear, and some instruction to Ramin regarding the use and timing of the phrase.

Then Ramin stared hard at John, getting a little more serious. _Your hair has a little gray in it now._

John laughed, hearing Sherlock mutter something about agreement, and said, a little teasingly in English to Ramin directly, "Thank you."

Ramin's eyes were bright as he glanced between John and the translator, and in his thickly accented English words, he said, "You're welcome."

John chuckled again, shaking his head. "Close enough."

They talked a bit more about how things were going, confirmed that Ramin was getting good medical supervision, that he was completely healed and doing well. Then Ramin started to get a bit itchy, and glanced again at the football that was on the ground behind where he and Sherlock had been sitting and waiting for them.

_I've been learning to use my head with the football._

_Oh?_

_We play at school sometimes, and then with my friends too_

_I'll bet you're getting better now as you're taller and such_

_I could show you, we could kick it too, kick it around. Your friend too, the three of us._

They kicked the football around a bit, and both John and Sherlock agreed that Ramin, at eleven, was much better suited to be heading the ball than either of them (not to mention, neither of them wanted to risk a headache), until the visit wound down. By mutual agreement the group walked toward the exit of the garden, where they would part ways.

_Before you go, there's something else I wanted you to have._

_The pen, Dr. John, is enough. And the ball. And you came to visit me._

_I did, I wanted to. And I wanted my friend Sherlock to meet you._

_That's an interesting name._ The interpreter had cleared his throat, leading both John and Sherlock to question his more politically correct translation of interesting. John suspected perhaps odd or funny had been used instead.

John cleared his throat to keep him from saying anything further about it, then glanced at Sherlock, who nodded encouragingly. They had actually talked about this quite a while ago, before they'd even moved in together, and John was quite glad to be doing this in person. _The army gave me this after I got hurt. I've enjoyed having it for a long time now._  He pulled out his Military Cross medal from the depths of his pocket.

Ramin glanced at Sherlock as if for confirmation, so he spoke up, with a smile and nod. _It's been on his dresser by your photo._

_I'd really like you to have it. You got hurt, too._

_Yes._ There was a fleeting frown across Ramin's face of course, but John was ready to continue and not dwell there.

_We've both recovered quite well, haven't we?_

Ramin nodded.

 _It's for you, then. Keep it somewhere, or wear it. Or hang it up in your room. Remember that you are ..._ The translator looked at John as he thoughtfully considered the word. With a questioning gesture, he said ... _a survivor. Much more than what happened to you._

The translator smiled a bit, nodded, approving of John's selection and indicating that he could very adequately convey the message. 

_Okay. Maybe the next time we see each other, I'll bring it to you and we can take turns having it._

John could feel Sherlock's hand rest lightly on his back at the words, comfort, acknowledgement of the tender moment. And  that meeting again would require a long trip. He also knew thinking about next time would make this goodbye easier. _That would be great._

 _Maybe I'll come visit you next time. Where do you live again?_ Ramin fished the pen out of his pocket, holding it out in a small hand toward John.

 _London. Somewhere near here,_ John pointed with the tip of a finger.

 _I'd like that,_ and Ramin seemed ready to make arrangements with his father.

John chuckled, agreeing, and Sherlock also invited them all to visit as well, exchanging handshakes with both Ramin and the other adults. John bent down, though, giving Ramin a fond hug, patted him on the back before they parted ways entirely.

Later that night, back at their hotel, Sherlock commented on the gray hair.

"Shut it, yeah? And it's light blond."

"No, it's gray. Ramin said --"

"Ramin is used to almost exclusively dark haired people, so his concept of gray vs. blond is --"

"Give up. Gray."

John thought about arguing (even from what he knew was a wrong position, there were indeed, as Ramin had said, a _little_ ). "Well, if there are, I earned a few this last year or so keeping tabs on you."

"I would blame them on Mycroft."

"Him too. But more your doing than his." A thought occurred to John then, and he added, "And if you don't watch out, and keep up with the gray jokes, I just might put my reading glasses on simply to annoy you."

Sherlock smirked, then opened the photos of his phone, thumbing through until he came to what he was looking for. "Then again, perhaps not," he said, showing John the picture.

It was what was left of his reading glasses, frames broken, lenses cracked and shattered beyond any hope of repair. John swiped at the photo to enlarge the detail, none of it good, none of it helpful. "What on earth were you doing?"

"Research. For a case, of course."

"Right. Were you researching what happens to someone who destroys their flatmates belongings?"

Though they were both chuckling and good natured, Sherlock did end up looking away as he repocketed his mobile. "Apparently. I may just have to beg for mercy." Both of them remembered the promise, the veiled threat, the excitement, and with a glimmer, Sherlock added, _"Twice."_

++

Their return trip made the planned stop in France, a plane to a train, then a bus connection, and then still not there. Internet searching was nearly non-existent for the hospital, but best Sherlock could tell the building was still standing and one source alluded to some historic connections and that the organisation that seemed to run it now assured full and complete privacy for all who seek services there.

Since they were planning a site visit anyway, they hailed an Uber from the nearest town - a right turn into the middle of nowhere already. The cab was disappearing from sight when John finally took a really good look around, seeing the long driveway, the rolling French countryside, the building in front of them.

It no longer seemed to be any sort of healthcare related facility. A small sign designated the building as the previous location of a small, private hospital, which had closed its doors many years ago. The building was owned by a consortium of offices, notary, architects, consultants, a vague counsel office, and an assortment of a few other small businesses.

"You ready?" There was at least a reception desk, a lobby, and a small sign for a nostalgic medical museum wing that was available to the public, according to the sign which John paused to read, 'by special appointment only.'

"None of this looks familiar."

"We don't have to do this, or do anything, you know."

"I hardly think I feel threatened by an office building in almost the middle of nowhere." He did in fact seen to be okay, standing tall, confident, composed. "But even the view, I guess I thought ..."

With a strong hand, John held open the door, using the other to barely skim along Sherlock's back as he passed by. Random touches, both of them knew, all along this trip made for good connections, togetherness, lessen stress, a tactile reminder that neither was alone. To stay grounded in the present despite all that had led them to where they currently were.

John approached the desk where a secretary was typing, a headset and switchboard close by. "Yes, good morning," he said when she looked up at them.

Her eye narrowed. "Do you have an appointment?" Having lived with Sherlock long enough, he picked out a few details, things he tuned into, from the chipped tooth to the dog hair to the slight bend in one earring to the wear pattern of her clothing on her elbow. John could hear an almost barely audible snort of breath from Sherlock as he expressed what he figured would turn into a dead end.

On a whim, John chuckled with a warmth he hoped would help. "Not exactly. We're here about the open office a few floors above. I met the museum curator a week or so ago, Monty, who was telling me about the availability." Sherlock kept his eyes down, realised John had secured the man's name from the small sign they'd passed on their way in.

Her lips pursed, not a promising sign.

John hesitated, hoping he wouldn't be immediately caught in the lie he was about to tell. "He said there was a vacancy."

"Well, there is, but ..."

"I was hoping to stop by and see it, get a feel for the building, before putting in an application."

"Does he know you're coming?"

"No."

"Did you contact the building manager?"

"No."

"Well, I can't just let you in."

"Is he here? Monty, from the museum?"

Her eye narrowed again. "You can call him. He might be." She set a phone on the counter. "Directory's right here."

John tapped the four digit extension while holding his breath, and pressed pound on the keypad which placed his call immediately into voicemail. He left a message knowing it would ultimately make absolutely no sense to Monty when he listened to it. He turned back to Sherlock, finding him watching and intrigued. He turned a smile at the receptionist. 

"I don't suppose you could let us in anyway, show us around?"

Arrogantly, she gave a look of almost disgust that they had even asked, that the ridiculous request was outrageous. "Of course not."

Sherlock slid his foot over to step lightly across John's, a warning out of sight from the secretary. "I'm sure he'll get back to us. We'll be back soon, then." He kept his voice light and even, and jerked his head toward the door they'd entered through. "Ta."

A few minutes later, from out of sight and out of the building, Sherlock blocked the visibility of his mobile number and called the desk, having procured the receptionists extension when John used the phone. A few carefully timed lies and distractions later, and they'd found their way to a rear shipping door. He proceeded to break the key code number - _seriously John, basic observations, her photo with the anniversary engraving, the number of her grandchildren, her favourite colour, child's play_ \- and while the receptionist was searching behind her computer tower looking for a connection cable Sherlock had sent her on some sort of chase to find, they gained entrance knowing that the small security cameras there at her desk were not being monitored. The wings and hallways were fairly well marked, and the building was not busy or else mostly unoccupied, and they found their way to the also-locked museum on the third floor. This one, however, proved impenetrable. By the door in a plastic rack, there was a brochure, a self-guided tour pamphlet, and a small handbook on the hospital's history. Sherlock thumbed through it, a bit restlessly, handed it to John and tried one final time to slide a chip-and-pin card behind the door lock.

John was just flipping a few pages when they both heard approaching noise. 

Footsteps in the hall sounded in the distance, echoing across the lino and the tall ceilings. Very quickly a few people happened upon them, warily looking them over, and one of whom asked if they needed directions. Sherlock declined, while John pocketed the handbook, said they were just leaving, and they moved unhurriedly on as well. A brief eye contact, and John turned back toward the stairwell they'd come from, while Sherlock seemed inclined to find the lift.

"We can't," John began.

"Door's alarmed at the outside stairwell exit, didn't you see the sign?"

"So right back out by your friendly receptionist?"

"Might as well, in plain sight seems the best plan, as if we belong here." John seemed concerned, but Sherlock made another face of frustration at him. "I highly doubt she's going to give chase as we leave. Those doors by the desk are not locked for those exiting the building."

A few minutes later, she was standing up, spluttering slightly, calling for them to wait as they pushed through the doors, walking smoothly back outside into the fresh air.

++ 

The hotel room was small but warmly furnished, the bedding thick and the hour late. But neither was tired, not at the moment, after the grounds tour and simply just being present where so much had happened and yet there was no distinct memory.

"You did a great job today, by the way. This couldn't have been easy."

"I'm okay. It just feels ... surreal." Sherlock turned his head on the pillow to look over at John. "Not at all familiar. Rather disconnected, actually. Nothing." He sighed. "A waste of a stopover, here."

"We could try to find the place your family was staying --?"

"No." Frustration was evident. "Really, it's fine."

John squeezed his hand lightly. "Three good things, then."

"Oh god, no. Pass." Now and again, John brought this to their day, the deliberate recall of the days positive notes. It seemed to be used most often in the bedroom when the day had been long or hard and sleep was elusive, finding it particularly helpful when Sherlock was in a bit of a strop, or a sulk, to remind him that perspective mattered so much. "I have no interest in continuing with your rather pointless, shallow exercises --"

"They're neither pointless nor shallow."

"Another useless waste of time --" 

John put a hand over Sherlock's arm in an attempt to silence the negativity. "I have three, then, since you've dug your heels in. First, beautiful. The mountains, the scenery. Even the drive of that former hospital site, the tall trees? Absolutely breathtaking. Second, you did so well, in what had to be potentially triggering, memories or no. Not knowing what to expect. That was good no matter how you try to downplay it. Third," and here John hesitated, "lets go with the view as I followed you across the office campus. Your view, specifically. Very nice." He trailed his hand down Sherlock's side toward his bum, his touch and tone light-hearted. "I do think you should consider --"

"No."

"Well, then maybe we can find something else to occupy your mind."

"That's a pathetic line."

"In that case, I have an idea." John waited a moment until Sherlock had made a get on with it gesture. "I was thinking we could try something tonight, if you're up for it?" His careful delivery, serious expression, and light and easy embrace did get Sherlock's attention.

"I think so. Yes."

"Do you trust me?" In the moment, John's question caught them both, and a deluge of memories came rushing back - the bigger events like the feeding tube, the blood transfusion, the endoscopy. Smaller events just as reliable and dependable, morning tea, hand massages, the violin and all that went along with it, the exposure therapy at the hospital. Working through Sherlock's new job and John's cautious steps to their moving in together. The encouragement and the dealing with Sherlock's relapse. "Do you?" John asked again, quieter.

"Of course I do." Sherlock spoke sincerely, meeting his gaze. "You know that."

"I'd like to do something, then. Try, anyway." There was a nod, a moment of eye contact, of trust and more than that. It was exposure to all the scars, the past, the history, the rebuilding of the ruins that had started so long ago. Seeing the scars, blemishes, evidence of hardship. Visiting this place had been both hard and easy - hard for the knowledge, easy for the lack of concrete memories. "Here, nothing too big, roll over on your back, yeah?" Sherlock did so, his naked form relaxed against the pillow, the duvet loosely up to their waists. "Can you reach up, both hands, stretch up? Right, like that, feel the headboard." John's hands came overtop Sherlock's gently, wrapping his fingers around the slats. "Can you hang on like that? Is that all right?"

They met and locked eyes, remembering John's words,  _Restraints should probably be completely off the table for you in the future_

"It's not --"

"I know."

"All right?" John asked again. "We don't --"

"I'm good." His words were quiet and steady.

"Let go anytime."

"Stop making such a big deal." From the mere inches away, John watched Sherlock's expression. Honest, open, calm. "I'm fine." A small smile, somewhere between mischievous and aroused. "What's more, I like it, okay?"

John returned the smile. Sherlock's ribs expanded easily as he breathed deep, toned muscles stretching, the concavity of his belly, cresting up to ribs, the line of his chest through his shoulders, biceps a well-crafted piece of sculpture. John brushed a hand across Sherlock's elbow, the underside of his arm, where the skin was so sensitive. "So, can you keep holding onto that?"

"Yes." After Sherlock's hands were up and he seemed comfortable, John pressed in, his lips starting at mouth, working down jaw, then collarbone, settling on a rosy nipple. John laved and licked, kissed for a bit, then raised his head to make sure Sherlock was engaged, watching, calm.

"That all right?" A nod, then another nod and a bigger smile. "You can let go anytime you want. It's just your hands holding you there. Your choice." John reached out his fingers, brushing the opposite nipple, his hands touching, supporting, rubbing Sherlock's pectoral muscle. He lowered his mouth again on the closer side while letting his thumb and index finger come around the other nipple, tightening just slightly, a firm sensation of pleasure mixed with tightness and the hint of a dull pinch. With both hands, John grasped Sherlock about the ribs, slid him down a bit lower in the bed, letting his arms stretch out longer, elbows straighter, the angles changing, more exposed. He brushed a caring hand across Sherlock's body, settling him, his fingers taking in an only mildly elevated heart rate over the left side of his chest. With a calm voice, he said his name again, then, "Talk to me. You okay?"

Somber, eyes bright, pupils dilated. "Oh yes." His voice was gravelly and full of anticipation.

"Put your hands on me, on my chest." Sherlock seemed thoughtful. "Bring your hands down, let go up there, and --"

"I believe I'd rather not." Steady blue-green-gray eyes stared back, sure and intense.

John grinned then at him, their faces quite close, bodies touching from the toes up, and he seemed quite engaged. "If you're sure."

For a moment Sherlock didn't answer, and John paused a moment, waiting, certainly not wanting to rush.

"Your call."

"Keep going."

"God you're amazing like this. Unbelievable." With dark eyes, John took in the set of Sherlock's eyes, a slight frown as he tightened his grip as John stimulated a few sensitive, tender areas, lovingly and gently, his clavicle, the area beneath his axilla, the indentation just inside the pelvic bones at his waist. His arms were solid, holding and following instructions. "You like this?" John asked in a breathy tone as he shifted so that he was on his knees between Sherlock's legs, his mouth still close to a nipple, nudging and pressing, a gentle nip of teeth followed by a kiss. A kiss to the sternum, and then John raised up for a full-mouthed kiss, both tongues involved, heated breath. Shifting slightly again, John let his body rest lightly against Sherlock's, a hug of security and togetherness and control. "You can let go whenever you want, remember," John reminded him.

"You just don't want me to panic and bloody your nose." Long ago when the hospital stay and therapy had been discussed, Sherlock had shortly thereafter remembered and shared with John an unfortunate sexual encounter involving being held down that ended in a violent reaction, a bloody nose, and the end of Sherlock's physical affection. Until John. 

"That too." John appreciated the lighter banter, then pressed a kiss again to Sherlock's jaw. "But not completely. I just want you to enjoy, like I'm enjoying, and feel safe."

"I am. Safe. I know it."

John licked and then nipped faintly at Sherlock's pink, budded chest. One of them, perhaps both, a faint moan, a beseeching of a deity, a plea.

In response, Sherlock kept his hands tight but pulled at his arms, allowing the sensation to get to them both as muscles tightened, the hint of him pulling at the headboard, finding and choosing to keep his hands held fast. He moaned then, tipping his head away from John and arching his back at John's resumed touch to his ribs, his side, the hair under his arm.

"Oh please. I want," Sherlock breathed, rolling his neck, his hips lifting upward, searching for John, for friction, for relief. "Please, god, John, I'm so _ready_."

"Of course, I've got you," John whispered, innately and silently pleased that Sherlock had said please _twice_ , that he was calm, speaking, wanting. "How do you --"

"In." A simple answer, a directive easily followed. _Fait accompli._ Yes.

It was his last coherent thought for long minutes, after that, both of them hunting, chasing, stalking, locating, finding, and then reveling in their mutual pleasures. Curled up in their usual positions - Sherlock against John's shoulder, a knee slotted, toes tucked in - John wrapped his hand loosely over Sherlock's as it rested on his ribs, their fingers aligned, his thumb lightly stroking the skin there until he felt Sherlock begin to drift off.

++

_Toxicology Report_

_Patient's name:  S. Holmes_

_DOB:  6 Jan_

_Medical record:  561249_

_Urine drug screen for employment clearance._

_Sample submitted using standard protocols in monitored setting analysed for standard toxins, emergency drug abuse panel, and illicit substances as required by municipal government form._

_Reportable substances:  none._

_This can be considered a final report and stands as a legal document._

++

John pushed open the door, glad to be home, glad to see Sherlock, despite the day and the chaos that greeted him. The microscope was out. A hot plate on the table had a boiling beaker on it, glassware and a notebook and the scent of something burning. Ah, more ash studies then. It was familiar. And a good distraction.

Sherlock took a look, ready to snap something very likely rude when he caught sight - and sense - of John's eyes, his aura. Standing up, whatever paper had been perched on one knee at the table where he was working slithered to the floor. "What happened?"

A shrug, a quick swallow, an attempt at a calm smile. "Oh, just a bad patient outcome. Some days it hits hard, you know?"

"Some days, a lot of things hit hard."

Sherlock had moved closer to John, not crowding, simply offering both support and close proximity. John could feel some of the tension leave, an exhale, "I'm okay."

"I know."

"But god, it's good to be home."

The faintest tilt of John's body in Sherlock's direction, and long arms wrapped around him, pressing close, easy and comforting. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

"I don't need to, I suppose. The walk home was nice." They separated slowly, Sherlock's thumb brushing over John's lapel and then lightly over John's lower lip. He pulled back further, removing his mouth from Sherlock's digit, narrowed an eye. "Anything toxic on your hand I should know about?"

An impish grin snuck onto Sherlock's features. "You could taste it and try to guess?" He proffered his thumb again.

John angled his head and pulled back slightly, a faint bit of laughter coming out of his mouth. "Like I said, good to be home." The smile and they way both of them shook their heads at the statement was abruptly cut short when there was the sound of breaking glass and then the laptop dinged, sizzled, hissed, and then was silent.

"Oops."

++

Transcript:  Drug hotline

_Hello and thank you for calling. My name is William Scott, this call may be recorded for training and quality assurance._

_(silence)_

_What can I do for you today?_

_(silence)_

_If this is a medical emergency and you need assistance, I can get a 999 dispatcher for you._

_No._

_Gently: Can you tell me why you called today?_

_(silence, muffled this time)_

_I'm here to help ... take a deep breath_

_I'm just tired._

_What kind of tired?_

_Tired of wanting it all the time._

_Wanting to use?_

_I did call the drug hotline, what kind of an idiot do they have answering this line?_

_Operator, quietly: finally, someone interesting to talk to. Are you in a safe place right now?_

_Yes._

_Are you under the influence right now?_

_Caller, a pause: Not yet._

_Okay, well, please don't do anything right now. I want to help you stay strong and beat this._

_It would be easier to just ... do it._

_Of course it would. But don't. You're stronger than that._

_I'm not, truly._

_You can be stronger a little while longer._

_I'm tired of resisting._

_It took a great deal of courage to call._

_Not really._

_I think it does. And now I can set you up with some resources, but first, I have some suggestions._

_(silence)_

_Take a deep breath._

_Piss off._

_Chuckle from the drug hotline operator: Another deep breath._

_(caller complies audibly)_

_Another. Good. Now, are you by yourself?_

_Yes._

_It would be good to tell a friend, someone who can come be with you, someone to talk to._

_I'm alone._

_Technically, perhaps. But I'm on the mobile with you, and will stay with you until you're feeling better, all right?_

_Caller, small sob, a loud shaky sigh: All right._

_I'll definitely be recommending some ideas and options for you, that will help._

_Caller, another soft sob: Okay. Thanks._

++

Sherlock's first few legit days when he returned to work for Greg had been a gentle easing back into the process, of a few files to review, getting up to date on current cases in progress, creating a few analysis reports. One afternoon he'd gone out along with John to a scene, where he seemed sharper. He'd stalked back and forth over the crime scene, confident, settled, eyes laser focused and intuitive, deductions brilliant and sharp. Even as John watched, he could tell that he was different than before. Both Greg and John made some eye contact, both noting the changes while Sherlock drew connections from a subtle detail to the surroundings to something the victim had in common with a more recent scandal.

Barely a week since he'd been fully returned to his previous workload and role, and there was a case that set them all back on their heels a bit. A note, a game, a bit of remote toying with the police, the bomber a few steps ahead, watching and goading. There was a severed finger left as a clue, and ultimately the trail ended with a live victim but traumatised next to a bloodied, dead bomber, with the details, hows-and-whys yet to be determined. The wailing, however, the babbling, the obvious psychotic break of the victim, holding up his four-fingered hand had been ... beyond horrifying.

Greg, in his calm leadership of the force, dismissed all but those who were absolutely needed, summoned an ambulance, notified the coroner, and sent John and Sherlock on their way. Though walking the entire way home was an impossibility, they did start out the trip by foot.

"I'm all right, you know," Sherlock muttered defensively. "Stop looking at me like I'm going to snap."

John kept quiet, thinking he had more to say about it. Waiting.

"I have no intention of turning to ... _anything."_

"Never said you were."

"You're still wondering about it. I can hear you thinking."

"Of course I'm wondering." John kept his voice gentle, wanting very much to slide an arm through Sherlock's or otherwise touch, offer support.

"You can if you want to." John cocked his head, puzzled. "With your arm, it's fine."

Smiling, John shook his head a little as they walked, but did in fact let his hand brush down the slim line of Sherlock's back, his long coat. "I'm still not entirely sure how you do that."

"You broadcast, seriously. And I know you." With the mood a little lighter, they walked in silence for short time. "He'll be okay, that poor guy?"

"They'll get him some help." John studied Sherlock's face, trying to sense cues on timing and receptiveness. "So, tonight, that was ...?"

"Unfortunate."

"Explain."

"The bomber's dead, unanswered questions. He was obviously a skilled asset in the past, probably some industrial connections, could have at least used his skills for good..." and he kept on for a few sentences about wasted resources and the sadness of never knowing all of the cleverness of such a "... oh, wait. That wasn't what you meant."

"Not really."

"What do you want to hear, then?"

"Whatever's on your mind."

"I'm all right," he said again, then seemed to stop abruptly, a small self-deprecating laugh, "Though that's the second time I've said that, I suppose." Their steps slowed as Sherlock seemed less focused on walking and more introspective. "It's frustrating to be late. Again. Too late. Too late to help. Could have spared that man," and he gestured a bit with his hand, searching for an acceptable phrase, "some significant distress. I don't think he'll ever be the same again." John watched Sherlock glance at his own hand, all fingers present, then tucked it back into the deep pockets of his coat. He knew they might giggle at that later, but the moment was not about that particular detail.

After a few minutes walking in companionable quiet, John brought the topic back to Sherlock. "Frustration's a tough one. Not particularly fixable." Their steps picked up again, in part, John thought, because the conversation was about to get maybe a little more personal for Sherlock. "But you don't feel as rattled by it tonight?" Without delay, he shook his head negatively. With a steady eye and a calm voice, John put gentle words to the situation, to Sherlock's coping skills. "What's different this time?"

"There's too much at stake. I ... just refuse to risk it."

John could tell he was still processing the scene, the question, and his own thoughts. After a bit, a cab snuck up alongside them, a rolled down window, an offer, a nod of agreement, then a delivery of two, slightly more settled men to their home. It hadn't been a test of extreme magnitude, but it was a good start and had set a good precedent.

Progress.

++

John had texted Sherlock about a dinner option, a place to meet, and as plans came together, John arrived at the establishment ahead of Sherlock. Sherlock had texted, saying he was going to be a little late, little snag at the flat but that John was not to worry, there was no destruction involved. So still slightly concerned but shaking his head, John ordered a pint, found a seat at the bar, settling in to relax and watch a bit of whatever sports were playing.

There was a moment he was aware someone had sat down next to him, but he didn't look over until an umbrella was placed in front of the newcomer at the bar.

"Hello," John said before even looking over to confirm the identity.

Mycroft inclined his head. "Dr. Watson."

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this time?" John took a sip, watching, waiting. Mycroft was rather hard to read, but didn't seem like there was anything urgent that needed immediate attention. "Don't you have a country to run, a war to start, other people to annoy?"

Mycroft simply smiled back at him, but it was a tolerant smile.

"Or," John said, smiling as he turned to face Mycroft head on, "poorly run, private hospitals to shut down?"

++

The train from France back to London had been mostly empty, thankfully, and both of them were looking forward to being home after the week or so away. Sherlock was engrossed on his mobile when John discovered something interesting, doing a bit of online researching himself on the big gaping holes that still remained in the French hospital from the handbook he'd procured.

The hospital, according to the book, had closed over ten years ago due some foreign investigating initiated by a small, private firm in England. The name of the company was non-descript and benign, but the logo had caught John's eye. It was a modified version of a vintage umbrella. A few clicks, some retyping of some search terms, and he found that it was an anonymous, independently owned corporation. A few links deep, and buried at the bottom of one of the pages, was a listing of the parent company's sponsoring board members.

The top of the list, designated as CEO:  M. Holmes.

++

"Ah yes, you put that together, did you? Or did Sherlock?"

"He doesn't know yet. It hasn't come up."

"It needed to be done. For obvious reasons."

"Yes it did. I hope it was particularly unpleasant for those with a history of inappropriate treatment decisions."

"Oh, I assure you," Mycroft began, and it seemed that John was going to hear about the severity of the closure, but then Mycroft pressed his lips together quite abruptly, his restraint telling as well. "Tsk, tsk," he uttered back, signaling the barkeep, a tap of a top shelf liquor and a minimal nod, and a tumbler of something golden was delivered.

"You come here for their selection of overpriced scotch, do you?"

"Of course not." Mycroft sipped, set the glass down. "I came to talk to you."

"Sure, predictions about the game? Suggestions for new microbrews to sample?" Mycroft shuddered at that as John continued. "Small talk about the weather, or a heads up about something else that's about to drastically alter my schedule?"

"None of the above, but nice try." Mycroft turned slightly so he could face John. "I just wanted to congratulate you."

John had no idea what Mycroft was talking about and kept that close to himself, maintaining silence and waiting for Sherlock's brother to enlighten him.

Instead, Mycroft acknowledged John's silence, took a sip himself, and turned back to the television screen. "You know," John said finally, not wishing to be the first to give in on yet another of Mycroft's little head games, his orchestrations, "Sherlock will probably be along in a few minutes."

A bit of a huff, and Mycroft finished off his drink, then turned. "Congratulations on choosing one of the terms of Sherlock's return to work, on requiring a number of ongoing hours manning the emergency hotline for those who call in for help, trying to stay clean." John was not surprised Mycroft knew. "I was made privy to one of the calls he took last week --"

"You did what?" John breathed.

"Callers are told right off that some calls may be monitored or recorded for training purposes." Mycroft chided him lightly. "So I listened in to the recording afterward. It was quite well handled." There was a smile as Mycroft took in John's expression. "It was a very good idea. And I'm assuming Sherlock does not know it was yours."

"He does not."

A familiar voice sounded behind them. "He does not _what?"_ Sherlock, of course.

Mycroft picked up his umbrella, laid down a few notes on the bar that would cover their drinks and likely dinner as well. "Enjoy the evening, gentlemen."

"What was he doing here?"

"He was just leaving."

"Oh John," Sherlock said sitting down with a scowl. "I think you need to fill me in. Immediately."

John nodded, having absolutely no inclination to hold anything back. "Absolutely. Over dinner," and he picked up his own glass as they made their way to a more remote table, "with pleasure. It's a good thing."

++

Take-away containers were mostly empty, sitting on the coffee table as the telly, stuck on the ending menu, flickered slightly. Light from the screen illuminated two sleeping faces, their eyes closed, mouth relaxed, one slightly open, the other slightly curved in a peaceful smile. Sherlock's legs were tucked over John's thighs, relaxed, muscles finally at rest after the busy day. The case, long. Their bodies, no longer stressed. Stomachs, full. Minds, at ease.

John's hand rested lightly on Sherlock's bare lower leg, his thumb ever so slightly twitching at times in his sleep, his fingers grazing over ankle bone and lightly haired skin.

Mrs. Hudson carried up a plate of biscuits - ginger for Sherlock, chocolate for John - her steps careful, her hand opening the door not particularly quietly with a soft rap of her knuckle. John stirred slightly, opening one eye half-way as she entered the room, to see her hold up a hand in a plea for silence. Quickly she set the plate down with a muffled thunk, crept from the room and closed the door behind her. His eye settled back shut, the room returning to its former peaceful and undisturbed state. 

Hours later, when someone's neck finally grew stiff and tired there on the couch and they'd awakened just long enough to click off the television and stumble into their bedroom, he would not remember Mrs. Hudson even being there.

++

"Read this."

Sherlock set his laptop down in front of John, where Sherlock's email was open. It was a direct connection from the website, where he still monitored the requests but only took a select few cases as time permitted. His days at the Met were now relatively full, dependable, and regularly gave him things and people to fuss about or otherwise ridicule for their ignorance.

_Dear Sherlock_

_How intriguing to discover this site. I trust it is meeting your needs, and I am absolutely positive that you are quite good at it._

_I'm not writing to request your help with a case, but something else entirely._

John scanned to the bottom of the email for the name. It was from Joe the violinist.

_My family and I have decided to offer a musical scholarship in memory of my uncle through one of the local universities, and as such, will be hosting an evening of performances, demonstrations, and showcasing some local as well as professional talent. I will be announcing the scholarship at the end of the evening after sharing my story as a tribute to my uncle. I have a couple of thoughts about the evening and I would be quite interested in your participation. First, I would love for you to speak for just a couple of minutes about music and it's contribution to how you found him, what led you to keep coming back, and then how your involvement helped the police locate and convict his murderer. These are music students so quite well versed in tragic stories, if you know what I mean. Then, it would mean a lot to me if you and I did a small performance, a duet, something lively and complicated, to end the evening._

_I'm even willing that you can have melody if you'd like._

_Let me know either way if you're interested and available._

_Fondly, Joe_

++

Epilogue:

John awakened quite early, his body relaxed but mind suddenly engaged, not sure exactly why. The flat was quiet. The street noise faint and its typical low background night levels. He was comfortably warm and ... just nothing seemed amiss. The other half of the bed, though, empty. A foot sliding out to check, still mostly warm. Sherlock must've got up, fairly recently.

John breathed deep, sat, stretched, pulled on his dressing down to go hunt down his flatmate, make sure everything was okay. The flat was still dark save a faint glow from the sitting room, a soft, low noise, a sense of steadiness, and rightness, of nothing urgently amiss. John could usually _feel it_ when something was not good.

Sherlock was sitting on the couch, leaned forward. The fireplace screen clicked a bit as it settled into place after replacement. The fireplace was still dark, the glow from Sherlock's laptop illuminating the room, a log had just been placed atop smaller kindling. Very faintly from the bottom of the smaller sticks, there was the slightest hiss and crackle as Sherlock leaned farther forward and blew gently, a small stripe of red glow, of flames in the making, of the lick of embers rising from the ashes.

"Couldn't sleep?" John asked, his voice just above a whisper in the stillness.

"Thinking."

"Good thoughts?"

"Mostly, yes."

"Can I join you?"

Sherlock didn't answer verbally, but tapped the spot next to where he was sitting.

"Nice fire in the making," John said slowly, sitting a short distance apart. "Mesmerising."

"Beauty from ashes," Sherlock said as there was a loud pop, a catching of the larger log by the flames, ignition, the spread of the fire slow and even along the bottom of the wood. "Kind of like us." He shifted, their shoulders close enough to barely brush together, body heat shared.

"Yes we are." Leaning a little closer, John propped one leg out straight, his head resting faintly against Sherlock's arm. Their silence was easy, companionable, warm. "Nice fire," he said again, nuzzling his head and adjusting, settling in.

He flicked his eyes to Sherlock's profile, the light from the fire catching his features, playing across strong nose, jaw, cheekbones. There was a small, contented smile.

++

John sipped his water, glanced out over the small gathering. The ring on his left hand - new, shiny platinum - glistened in the overhead string lights that had been tacked high up on the walls there on Baker Street. The warm room seemed more friendly with the softer, overhead lighting.

Harry was chatting with Mycroft. Molly sipped her wine keeping an eye on Greg Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson fussed about the buffet of sweets and goodies she'd been baking all week long. Mike Stamford stood watching, along with a couple of officers who'd come by to wish them well. A couple of people from John's office were listening to Sherlock, who was apparently telling a story, animatedly gesturing with his left hand. Even from across the room, the newly adorned, matching ring on his hand caught the light as well, a soft sparkle against the etching.

Someone clicked a spoon against their glass, and Sherlock stopped his story mid-sentence with a glare at the room in general. Focused, he approached John, scowling, and in a low, annoyed voice asked, "Will this endless foolishness never cease?"

"Humour them, Sherlock. They're happy for us."

"This is the last time," he groused, bending down to plant a firm kiss against John's lips, then when there was a catcall, he deepened it, mouth opening slightly before John laughed and pulled away. "No more," he threatened. "Next time anyone does that, you're all getting thrown out." 

Chuckling the loudest was Greg, who was close enough to whisper, "Plans for your new husband, eh?"

The frown in Greg's direction softened when someone started chuckling quickly joined by a second laugh - and gazes turned toward the siblings of the newly married couple. Harry and Mycroft were both shaking their heads, mirthful and smiling. Mycroft was holding a spoon, gesturing at Harry, who held up her tumbler. With a raised, playful eyebrow, Mycroft tapped the spoon on Harry's glass four distinct times, then deposited the spoon into the glass. "And I believe that carries out our escape plan," he muttered loudly to Harry.

Quickly, the room occupants mulled about one last time, picking up treats upon threat of Mrs. Hudson and issuing their final round of well-wishes and good-byes. The door had barely shut when two pairs of feet left the sitting room, where the debris from a celebratory gathering would wait for the next day. Photos on the mantel shelf - Ramin, various random family members, a candid of the two of them from a crime scene from a newspaper article - sat in the nearly dark room, having been commented on a few times by various guests. Harry's frame in particular had received a few compliments. The skull, unmentioned, having been long part of the decor there. The overhead lights hung dark, the fire behind the screen the faintest flicker of glowing red fading to dark, soon to become white, ash.

Down the hallway, a sigh, a moan, a softly breathed name.

An adjustment of bed linens being tucked in, over shoulders, an easy hug, legs entangled, the soft even breathing of sleeping occupants. Bodies and minds their respective hidden and unhidden, healed scars. Peace and contentment over unrest and pain. Soulmates with a solid foundation, of acceptance and healing.

Beauty from ashes indeed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much. I have been thrilled to share this with you all. I had no idea this work would end up this long and cover this much ground.
> 
> Every kudo and comment helped make it all happen.
> 
> I hope you have enjoyed this even partly as much as I have.
> 
> As usual, please let me know gently if you find an untenable loose end or typo. 
> 
> +++
> 
> I know nothing about the True Crime Museum in Hastings, but it sounded like a place Sherlock would be interested in. And then misbehave horribly once John took him there. It is apparently a 2 hour drive from London.
> 
> Thanks again for the cover (itsallfine) and the fanart (madeleinefs). Still smiling about that.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover] Beauty from Ashes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14685930) by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)
  * [[Art] Blueberry Experiment](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15986648) by [ChicxulubZero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChicxulubZero/pseuds/ChicxulubZero)




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